Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV:

• Variation on a Theme
• "Such Stuff as Dreams"
• The Ballad of Justifiable Homicide
• The Ballad of the Murdered Merchant
• A Gotham Garden of Verses
• Lines on Reading Frank J. Wilstach's "A Dictionary of Similies"
• The Dictaphone Bard
• The Comfort of Obscurity
• Ballade of the Traffickers
• To W. Hohenzollern, on Discontinuing The Conning Tower
• To W. Hohenzollern, on Resuming The Conning Tower
• Thoughts on the Cosmos
• On Environment
• The Ballad of the Thoughtless Waiter
• Rus. Vs. Urbs
• "I'm Out of the Army Now"
• "Oh Man!"

  Part V

Variation on a Theme

June 30th, 1919

NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a

clearer tone

Than ever was blared by a bugle or zoomed

by a saxophone;

And the sound that opens the gates for me of

a Paradise revealed

Is something akin to the note revered by the

blesséd Eugene Field,

Who sang in pellucid phrasing that I perfectly

will recall

Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher that the

boy brings up the hall.

But sweeter to me than the sparrow's song or

the goose's autumn honks

Is the sound of the ice in the shaker as the

barkeeper mixes a Bronx.

Between the dark and the daylight, when I'm

worried about The Tower,

Comes a pause in the day's tribulations that

is known as the cocktail hour;

And my soul is sad and jaded, and my heart

is a thing forlorn,

And I view the things I have written with a

sickening, scathing scorn.

Oh, it's then I fare with some other slave who

is hired for the things he writes

To a Den of Sin where they mingle gin--such

as Lipton's, Mouquin's or Whyte's,

And my spirit thrills to a music sweeter than

Sullivan or Puccini--

The swash of the ice in the shaker as he mixes

a Dry martini.

The drys will assert that metallic sound is the

selfsame canon made

By the ice in a shaker that holds a drink

like orange or lemonade;

But on the word of a traveled man and a

bard who has been around,

The sound of tin on ice and gin is a snappier,

happier sound.

And I mean to hymn, as soon as I have a

moment of leisure time,

The chill susurrus of cocktail ice in an adequae

piece of rhyme.

But I've just had an invitation to hark, at a

beckoning bar,

To the sound of the ice in the shaker as the

barkeeper mixes a Star.

"Such Stuff as Dreams"

JENNY kissed me in a dream;

   So did Elsie, Lucy, Cora,

Bessie, Gwendolyn, Eupheme,

   Alice, Adelaide, and Dora.

Say of honour I'm devoid,

   Say mongamy has miss'd me,

But don't say to Dr. Freud

      Jenny kiss'd me.

The Ballad of Justifiable Homicide

THEY brought to me his mangled corpse

  And I feared lest I should swing.

"O tell me, tell me,--and make it brief--

  Why hast thou done this thing?

"Had this man robbed the starving poor

  Or lived a gunman's life,

Had he set fire to cottages,

  Or run off with thy wife?"

"He hath not robbed the starving poor

  Or lived a gunman's life;

He hath set fire to no cottage,

  Nor run off with my wife.

"Ye ask me such a question that

  It now my lips unlocks:

I learned he was the man who planned

  The second balcony box."

The jury pondered never an hour,

  They thought not even a little,

But handed in unanimously

  A verdict of acquittal.

The Ballad of the Murdered Merchant

ALL stark and cold the merchant lay,

  All cold and stark lay he.

And who hath killed the fair merchant?

  Now tell the truth to me.

Oh, I have killed this fair merchant

  Will never again draw breath;

Oh, I have made this fair merchant

  To come unto his death.

Oh, why hast thou killed this fair merchant

  Whose corpse I now behold?

And why hast caused this man to lie

  In death all stark and cold?

Oh, I have killed this fair merchant

  Whose kith and kin make moan,

For that he hath stolen my precious time

  When he useth the telephone.

The telephone bell rang full and clear;

  The receiver did I seize.

"Hello!" quoth I, and quoth a girl,

  "Hello! . . . One moment, please."

I waited moments ane and twa,

  And moments three and four,

And then I sought the fair merchant

  And spilled his selfish gore.

That business man who scorneth to waste

  His moments sae rich and fine

In calling a man to the telephone

  Shall never again waste mine!

And every time a henchwoman

  Shall cause me a moment's loss,

I'll forthwith fare to that office

  And stab to death her boss.

Rise up! Rise up! thou blesséd knight!

  And off thy bended knees!

Go forth and slay all folk who make

  Us wait "One moment, please."

A Gotham Garden of Verses

      I

IN summer when the days are hot

The subway is delayed a lot;

In winter, quite the selfsame thing;

In autumn also, and in spring.

And does it not seem strange to you

That transportation is askew

In this--I pray, restrain your mirth!--

In this, the Greatest Town on Earth?

      II

All night long and every night

The neighbors dance for my delight;

I hear the people dance and sing

Like practically anything.

Women and men and girls and boys,

All making curious kinds of noise

And dancing in so weird a way,

I never saw the like by day.

So loud a show was never heard

As that which yesternight occurred:

They danced and sang, as I have said,

As I lay wakeful in my bed.

They shout and cry and yell and laugh

And play upon the phonograph;

And endlessly I count the sheep,

Endeavouring to fall asleep.

      III

It is very nice to think

This town is full of meat and drink;

That is, I'd think it very nice

If my pappa but had the price.

      IV

This town is so full of a number of folks,

I'm sure there will always be matter for jokes.

Lines on Reading Frank J. Wilstach's "A Dictionary of Similies"

AS neat as wax, as good as new,

As true as steel, as truth is true,

Good as a sermon, keen as hate,

Full as a tick, and fixed as fate--

Brief as a dream, long as the day,

Sweet as the rosy morn in May,

Chaste as the moon, as snow is white,

Broad as barn doors, and new as sight--

Useful as daylight, firm as stone,

Wet as a fish, dry as a bone,

Heavy as lead, light as a breeze--

Frank Wilstach's book of similies.

The Dictaphone Bard

[And here is a suggestion: Did you ever try dictating your stories or articles to the dictaphone for the first draft? I would be glad to have you come down and make the experiment.--From a shorthand reporter's circular letter.]

(As "The Ballad of the Tempest" would have to issue from the dictaphone to the stenographer)

   Begin each line with a capital. Indent alternate lines. Double space after each fourth line.

WE were crowded in the cabin comma

Not a soul would dare to sleep dash comma

It was midnight on the waters comma

And a storm was on the deep period

Apostrophe Tis a fearful thing in capital Winter

To be shattered by the blast comma

And to hear the rattling trumpet

Thunder colon quote capital Cut away the mast exclamation point close quote

So we shuddered there in silence comma dash

For the stoutest held his breath comma

While the hungry sea was roaring comma

And the breakers talked with capital Death period

As thus we sat in darkness comma

Each one busy with his prayers comma

Quote We are lost exclamation point close quote the captain shouted comma

As he staggered down the stairs period

But his little daughter whispered comma

As she took his icy hand colon

Quote Isn't capital God upon the ocean comma

Just the same as on the land interrogation point close quote

Then we kissed the little maiden comma

And we spake in better cheer comma

And we anchored safe in harbor

When the morn was shinng clear period

The Comfort of Obscurity

INSPIRED BY READING MR. KIPLING'S POEMS AS
         PRINTED IN THE NEW YORK PAPERS

THOUGH earnest and industrious,

I still am unillustrious;

   No papers empty purses

   Printing verses

         Such as mine.

No lack of fame is chronicker

Than that about my monicker;

   My verse is never cabled

   At a fabled

         Rate per line.

Still though the Halls

Of Literature are closed

To me a bard obscure I

Have a consolation The

Copyreaders crude and rough

Can't monkey with my

Humble stuff and change MY

Punctuation.

Ballade of the Traffickers

UP goes the price of our bread--

Up goes the cost of our caking!

People must ever be fed;

Bakers must ever be baking.

So, though our nerves may be quaking,

Dumbly, in arrant despair,

Pay we the crowd that is taking

All that the traffic will bear.

Costly to sleep in a bed!

Costlier yet to be waking!

Costly for one who is wed!

Ruinous for one who is raking!

Tradespeople, ducking and draking,

Charge you as much as they dare,

Asking, without any faking,

All that the traffic will bear.

Roof that goes over our head,

Thirst so expensive for slaking,

Paper, apparel, and lead--

Why are their prices at breaking?

Yet, though our purses be aching,

Little the traffickers care;

Getting, for chopping and steaking,

All that the traffic will bear.

L'ENVOI

Take thou my verses, I pray, King,

Letting my guerdon* be fair.          [reward]

Even a bard must be making

All that the traffic will bear.

To W. Hohenzollern, on Discontinuing The Conning Tower

WILLIAM, it was, I think, three years ago--

   As I recall, one cool October morning--

(You have The Tribune files; I think they'll show

         I gave you warning).

I said, in well-selected words and terse,

   In phrases balanced, yet replete with power,

That I should cease to pen the prose and verse

         Known as The Tower

That I should stop this Labyrinth of Light--

   Though stopping make the planet leaden-hearted--

Unless you stop the well-known Schrecklichkeit

         Your nation started.

I printed it in type that you could read;

   My paragraphs were thewed, my rhymes were sinewed.

You paid, I judge from what ensued, no heed . . .

         The war continued.

And though my lines with fortitude were fraught,

   Although my words were strong, and stripped of stuffing,

You, William, thought--oh, yes, you did--you thought

         That I was bluffing.

You thought that I would fail to see it through!

   You thought that, at the crux of things, I'd cower!

How little, how imperfectly you knew

         The Conning Tower!

You'll miss the column at the break of day.

   I have no fear that I shall be forgotten.

You'll miss the daily privilege to say:

         "That stuff is rotten!"

Or else--as sometimes has occured--when I

   Have chanced upon a lucky line to blunder,

You'll miss the precious privilege to cry:

         "That bird's a wonder!"

Well, William, when your people cease to strafe,

   When you have put an end to all this war stuff,

When all the world is reasonably safe,

         I'll write some more stuff.

And when you miss the quip and wanton wile,

   And learn you can't endure the Towerless season,

O William, I shall not be petty . . . I'll

         Listen to reason.

To W. Hohenzollern, on Resuming The Conning Tower

WELL William, since I wrote you long ago--

   As I recall, one cool October morning--

(I have The Tribune files. They clearly show

         I gave you warning).

Since when I penned that consequential ode,

   The world has seen a vast amount of slaughter,

And under many a Gallic bridge has flowed

         A lot of water.

I said when your people ceased to strafe,

   That when you'd put an end to all this war stuff,

And all the world was reasonably safe

         I'd write some more stuff.

That when you missed the quip and wanton wile

   And learned you couldn't bear a Towerless season,

I quote, "O, I shall not be petty. . . . I'll

         Listen to reason."

Labuntur anni*, not to say Eheu          [alas, the fleeting years go on]

   Fugaces! William, by my shoulders glistening!

I have the final laugh, for it was you

         Who did the listening.

January 13, 1919

Thoughts on the Cosmos

      I

I DO not hold with him who thinks

The world is jonahed by a jinx;

That everything is sad and sour,

And life a withered hothouse flower.

      II

I hate the Polyanna pest

Who says that All Is for the Best,

And hold in high, unhidden scorn

Who sees the Rose, nor feels the Thorn.

      III

I do not like extremists who

Are like the pair in (I) and (II);

But how I hate the wabbly gink,

Like me, who knows not what to think!

On Environment

I USED to think that this enviro-

  Ment talk was all a lot of guff;

Place mattered not with Keats and Byron

         Stuff.

If I have thoughts that need disclosing,

  Bright be the day or hung with gloom,

I'll write in Heaven or the composing-

         Room.

Times are when with my nerves a-tingle,

  Joyous and bright the songs I sing;

Though, gay, I can't dope out a single

         Thing.

And yet, by way of illustration,

  The gods my graying head annoint . . .

I wrote this piece at Inspiration

         point.

The Ballad of the Thoughtless Waiter

I SAW him lying cold and dead

Who yesterday was whole.

"Why," I inquired, "hath he expired?

And why hath fled his soul?

"but yesterday," his comrade said,

"All health was his, and strength;

And this is why he came to die--

If I may speak at length.

"But yesternight at dinnertime

At a not unknown café,

He had a frugal meal as you

Might purchase any day.

"The check for his so simple fare

Was only eighty cents,

And a dollar bill with a right good will

Came from his opulence.

"The waiter brought him twenty cents.

'Twas only yesternight

That he softly said who now is dead

'Oh, keep it. 'Ats a' right.'

"And the waiter plainly uttered 'Thanks,'

With no hint of scorn or pride;

And my comrade's heart gave a sudden start

And my comrade up and died."

Now waiters overthwart this land,

In tearooms and in dives,

Mute be your lips whatever the tips,

And save your customers' lives.

Rus. Vs. Urbs

WHENEVER the penner of this pome

Regards a lovely country home,

He sighs, in words not insincere,

"I think I'd like to live out here."

And when the builder of this ditty

Returns to this pulsating city,

The perpetrator of this pome

Yearns for a lovely country home.

"I'm Out of the Army Now"

WHEN first I doffed my olive drab,

I thought, delightfully though mutely,

"Henceforth I shall have pleasure ab-

         Solutely."

Dull with the drudgery of war,

Sick of the name of fighting,

I yearned, I thought, for something more

         Exciting.

The rainbow be my guide, quoth I;

My suit shall be a brave and proud one

Gay-hued my socks; and oh, my tie

         A loud one.

For me the theater and the dance;

Primrose the path I would be wending;

For me the roses of romance

         Unending.

Those were my inner thoughts that day

(And those of many another million)

When once again I should be a

         Civilian.

I would not miss the o.d.;

(Monotony I didn't much like)

I would not miss the reveille,

         And such the like.

I don't . . . And do I now enjoy

My walks along the primrose way so?

Is civil life the life? Oh, boy,

         I'll say so.

"Oh Man!"

MAN hath harnessed the lightning;

Man hath soared to the skies;

Mountain and hill are clay to his will;

Skillful he is, and wise.

Sea to sea hath he wedded,

Canceled the chasm of space,

Given defeat to cold and heat;

Splendour is his, and grace.

His are the topless turrets;

His are the plumbless pits;

Earth is slave to his architrave,

Heaven is thrall to his wits.

And so in the golden future,

He who hath dulled the storm

(As said above) may make a glove

That'll keep my fingers warm.