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Immortalia
AN ANTHOLOGY OF AMERICAN BALLADS,
SAILORS' SONGS, COWBOY SONGS, COLLEGE
SONGS, PARODIES, LIMERICKS, AND OTHER
HUMOROUS VERSES AND DOGGEREL NOW
FOR THE FIRST TIME BROUGHT TOGETHER
IN BOOK FORM
By
A GENTLEMAN ABOUT TOWN
ONE THOUSAND COPIES OF THIS BOOK
HAVE BEEN PRIVATELY PRINTED FOR SUBSCRIBERS
NONE IS FOR GENERAL SALE
INTRODUCTION
THE GENTLEMAN ABOUT TOWN has performed a service of
notable worth in preserving and giving definitive form to the wealth of latter-day folk-lore which is contained within
the covers of "Immortalia." American folk-lore has of necessity sought cover, driven by the
undiscriminating tirades and sadistic tyrannies of the Mrs. Grundys who are an irremovable part of
this melange we know as modern civilization. Undoubtedly, much material
of permanent literary value has been lost.
Literary worth in folk-lore depends on just one thing -- its spontaneity.
Folk-lore is no hot-house plant, to be fertilized with refined chemicals and
maintained at constant temperature when the winds of reality blow. On
the contrary, folk-lore seeks its nourishment in the fertilizing essences of
nature, and springs triumphantly forth no matter how fierce the winds or
how rigorous the frost. Just as some beautiful plants seem to grow in opposition to all efforts of the gardeners and the horticulturists, so does folk-lore thrive in the face of determined efforts of the sentimentalists to deny
its very existence.
Folk-lore is, after all, nothing but the literature of the people. It, more
truly than any more polished side of literary effort, reflects the average
standard of all the people at the time of its currency. The very fact of its
existence is dependent upon the willingness of the people (not of the
literary guildmasters) to keep it alive. Literature with a capital "L"
has
all the stabilizing factors of the printed word and of learned tradition to
perpetuate it—folk-lore lives only in the voices of the people themselves—
the source from which the material in this book has been drawn, from
cover to cover.
It is not the purpose of this book to override good taste — indeed, the
fact that it is issued not for public sale, but for subscribers only, is a
definite
and willing concession to the prevalence of the same good taste which keeps
a courtesan and a courtier alike from announcing their morning ablutions
to an incurious world.
However, good taste has nothing in common with good folk-lore. One
is artificial, the other natural. One is the essence of refinement, the other is
the rawest of raw material. The one is the glossy vender; all external
handsomeness, the other the sturdy fabric from which all strength is drawn. In
fact, almost all good folk-lore (and by that I mean all real folk-lore) is in
distinct bad taste in drawing rooms and among the niceties of society. It is as much an outcropping of underlying fundamental strength as those deep-rooted rocks which are the farmer's despair even though they be the ribs
of the earth.
These "Immortalia" are homely; they are imaginative; they are
couched
in the most vigorous of language; they are crude in literary form, oftentimes ; yet they are what people—just ordinary people, undistinguished and
unknown,—have been thinking and saying and singing for their own delectation during the last seventy-five years.
This is not a book for the tender-skinned, nor for those excellent persons
(and their name is legion!) who sincerely prefer to keep their thoughts
within the strict bounds of conventionality. It is, instead, an effort of
serious contribution to the history of peoples, and a book for the enjoyment of those who can prize the lily and forget the odorous yet fertile
dung-heap from which it springs. It is a book for those who acknowledge
that the dung-heap is as indispensable in the scheme of biology as is the
drawing-room — and that in its way, even the dung-heap has virtues and
can produce: immaculate lilies.
If you are squeamish about reading the Anglo-Saxon biological uni-syllables
— if you prefer to believe that children come out of the blue rather
than as a result of biological processes -- if you feel that nothing between
neck and knees should even have a name — then close this book now, and
read no further.
But if, instead, you have an enlightened sense of humor — if you admit
the truth about the human body in its essentials as readily as you do about
ii
it in its extremities—if names to you are titles by which factual things are
known — if profanity is to you the name of a class of words, and not an implication of polluting horrors
— then prize this book above rubies, for it is
for you that it has been made.
The Gentleman About Town asks me to make acknowledgements on his
behalf to the many ladies and gentlemen who have assisted him in this
compilation; and to express his regret that circumstances deter him from
giving them their proper share of thanks by naming them here.
THE GENTLEMAN FROM OUT OF TOWN.
iii
THE SKONK I HUNT
Anonymous
I hunt de bear, I hunt de moose,
An' sometam hunt de rat;
Las' week I take ma hax an' go
For hunt a skonk polecat.
Ma fren' Beel say he's ver' fine fur,
An' sametam good to heat;
I tell ma wife I get fur coat,
Sametarn I get some meat.
I walk 'bout three, five, six mile,
An' then I feel strong smell—
Tink mebbe that dam skonk she die
An' fur coat gone to hell.
Purrsoon bime-by I see that skonk
Close up by one beeg tree;
I sneek up ver' close behin',
I tink he no see me.
Bime-by I'm ver', ver' close,
I raise ma hax up high,
Dat goddam skonk he up an' plunk—
T'row something in my eye.
Oh, Sacre Bleu! I tink I blin';
Jees Chris! I cannot see;
I run roun' an' roun' an' roun'
'Till I bump in goddam tree.
Bime-by I drop ma hax away
An' light out for de shack,
I tink 'bout million skonk
He clim' up on ma back.
Ma wife she meet at de door,
She sic on me de dog;
She say, "You no sleep here tonight,
Go out an' sleep with hog."
I try to get in that pig-pen,
Jees Christ! now what you tink?
Dat goddam hog no stan' for that
On 'count of awful stink.
No more I go for hunt de skonk
To get his fur an' meat;
For if he peese he smell so bad;
Jees Chris! what if he sheet!
NOW MY FAIR BRIDE
Anonymous
Now my fair bride, now will I storm the mint
Of love and joy, and rifle all that's in it.
Now my enfranchised hand on every side
Shall o'er thy naked polished ivory slide;
Freely shall my longing eyes behold
Thy bared snow and thy undrained gold;
No curtain now, tho' of transparent lawn,
Shall be before thy virgin treasure drawn;
I will enjoy thee now, my fairest; come
And fly with me to Love's elysium.
My rudder with thy bold hand, like a try'd
And skilful pilot, thou shalt steer, and guide
My bark in Love's dark channel, where it shall
Dance as the rising waves do rise and fall.
Whilst mine tall pinnace in the Cyprian strait
Rides safe at anchor and unlades the freight.
2
THE BALLAD OF GAFFER HEPELTHWAITE
Anonymous
Far inland from the lighthouse where the angry tempests rage
Resides old Gaffer Hepelthwaite who drives the Essex stage,—
A man of many winters and so vigorous withal
That coy spermatozoa still inhabit his left ball.
Alas for Gaffer Hepelthwaite! so virile was his stroke,
So stern and stiff his penis like the mighty Essex oak,
That never yet a maiden did confront his aged e'en
Whose legs he did not yearn to part and place his prong between.
One day the Mayor of Essex town upon his good roan mare
Came riding down the turnpike to enjoy the Autumn air,
And with his great official rode his winsome daughter Bess
Whose passion for Fall atmosphere was but a trifle less.
"Trot-trot! Along they cantered—quoth the Mayor, "Ecod, my lass,
"They tell me Gaffer Hevelthwaite can still enjoy his ass."
"O pish!" exclaimed the damosel, and lustily laughed she,
"No fond octogenarian could ever diddle me!"
A rattle interrupted her—a clatter as of feet—
The Essex stage swept into view, the Gaffer in his seat.
"What ho!" the Mayor shouted, "Pause in your headlong flight,
For here's a pretty argument which you can set aright."
They made him explanation and witthout the least ado,
This aged, snowy-headed wight his prick brought into view.
The damosel dismounted and the Gaffer climbed on top,
And proved the Mayor's contention till that worthy ordered, "Stop!"
"Stop, did you say, your worship?" said the Gaffer 'tween his
strokes,
Administering to Bessie five final lusty pokes,
"I pray you, noble gentleman, this order to rescind,
For I find I'm just arriving at my famous second wind."
3
'Twas then that Gaffer Hepelthwaite, his penis in the air,
Committed violent outrage on the gentle young roan mare,
And finding that she wearied, next proceeded to engage
The splendid span of animals connected with the stage.
• •••
'Twas twilight over Essex town; the damsel and her sire
In the Mayor's habitation were preparing to retire.
"What cheer, my lass?" the father quoth, and, "Cheer
enough," quoth she,
"For I shall ride the Essex stage as long as stage there be."
OH, I MET MISS MALONE
Anonymous
Oh, I met Miss Malone in the graveyard,
And I laid Miss Malone on a stone;
And when I socked each stroke to her,
You could hear all the dead people moan.
Oh, I met Miss Malone in the barnyard,
And she was all covered with mud;
And when I asked what had happened,
She said she'd been climbed by a stud.
4
THE PASSING OF THE BACKHOUSE
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
When memory keeps me company and moves to smiles or tears,
A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years.
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,
And hurrying feet a path had made up to its swinging door.
Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,
But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part.
And oft the passing traveller drove slow and heaved a sigh,
To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.
We had our posey garden that the women loved so well,
I loved it too, but better still I loved the stronger smell
That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,
And told the night-o'ertaken tramp that human life was near.
On August afternoons, it made a little bower
Delightful, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there the Summer morning its very cares entwined,
And berry bushes reddened in the streaming soil behind.
All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies
That flitted to and from the house, where ma was baking pies.
And once a swarm of hornets bold had built a palace there,
And stung my unsuspecting aunt—I must not tell you where.
Then father took a flaming pole—that was a happy day-
He nearly brrned the building up—the hornets left to stay.
When Summer's bloom began to fade and Winter to carouse,
We banked the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs.
But when the crust was on the snow and sullen skies were gray
In sooth the building was no place where one could wish to stay,
We did our duties promptly, there one purpose swayed the mind;
We tarried not, nor lingered long on what we left behind.
The torture of that icy seat would make a Spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the gooseflesh with a lacerating cob.
That from a frost-encrusted nail did dangle by a string—
My father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.
5
When grandpa had "to go out back" and make his morning call,
We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl.
I knew the hole on which he sat—'twas padded all around,
And once I dared to sit there—'twas all too wide I found.
My loins were all too little, and I jack-knifed there to stay.
They had to come and get me out, or I'd have passed away.
Then father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun,
And I just used the children's hole 'til childhood days were done.
And still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true,
The baby hole, and the slender hole that fitted sister Sue.
That dear old country landmark;—I've tramped around a bit,
And in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit,
But ere I die I'll eat the fruit of trees I robbed of yore,
Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door.
I ween the old familiar smell will soothe my jaded soul,
I'm now a man, but, none the less, I'll try the children's hole.
IN YOUR BOYHOOD DAYS
Anonymous
First you knock at the door, and then you ask for Annie
Then you put a nickel in the old piannie;
And down comes Annie in her dirty silk kimonie,
All dolled up with perfume and colognie;
Then you pay a dollar for a bottle of beerie,
Another dollar goes for the music you hearie,
Three dollars more, and up you go with dearie;
And then you've got nine days of doubt and fearie!
6
A SEVENTY YEAR OLD FOLLOWER
Anonymous
An old sport lounged in a grandstand chair,
There was dung in his whiskers and hay in his hair,
And his voice rang hoarse on the sultry air,
"He'll win in a walk, b'Jesus!"
"Just wait 'til you see them turn him loose,
He'll go through that field like shit through a goose,
He'll do it as easy as ace takes a deuce—
He'll win in a walk, b'Jesus !"
"His breeding is right, he can't go slow,
He's out of Black Bess by Hungry Joe;
Of that bunch of skates he'll sure make a show—
He'll win in a walk, b'Jesus!"
"I ain't got no money, but if I was rich,
I'd go dead broke on that son-of-a-bitch;
When he gets a-goin' he'll make 'em all itch—
He'll win in a walk, b'Jesus!"
"They've sent 'em away—gave him worst of the start—
It don't make no difference—he don't care a fart—
The suckers are yellow but he's game—got a heart—
He'll win in a walk, b'Jesus !"
"From the nineteenth position way out in the grass
Where weeds are so tall they tickle his ass,
He's just nosed out of place Scotch Highland Lass—
He'll win in a walk, b'Jesus!"
"They are swung in the stretch and the bastard is third—
He has worked up to second—now, he's slipped on a terd;
He's slipped in the ditch, the son-of-a-bitch—
He wasn't in it, b'Jesus!"
7
LADY LIL
EUGENE FIELD
Lil was the best our camp perduced;
And of all the gents what Lillian goosed,
None had no such goosin', nor never will,
Since the Lord raked in poor Lady Lil.
We had a bet in our town
Thar warn't no geezer that could brown
Lil toa finish, any style—
And no bloke ever made the trial
'Cept Short Pete, the halfbreed galoot,
Who wandered in from Scruggins' Chute.
His takin' it surprised us all,
For Pete he warn't so big nor tall,
But when he yanked his tool out thar,
And laid it out across the bar,
We 'lowed our Lil had met her fate,
But thar warn't no backin' out that late,
And so we 'ranged to have the mill
Behind the whore-house on the hill,
Where all the boys could get a seat
And watch that half-breed brown his meat.
Lil's start was like the gentle breeze
That swayed the noddin' cypress trees,
But when het up, she screwed for keeps
And laid her victims out in heaps.
She tried her twists and double biffs,
And all such m'neuvres known to quiffs,
But Pete war thar with every tack,
And kept a-lettin' out more jack.
It made us cocksmen fairly sick
To see that half-breed shove his prick.
She gave short Pete a lively mill,
And wore the grass half off the hill;
'Til finally, she missed her shot,
And Short Pete had her on the pot,
But she died game, just let me tell,
And had her boots on when she fell,
So what the hell, Bill, what the hell!
8
LITTLE WILLIE*
EUGENE FIELD
When Willie was a little boy,
Not more than five or six,
Right constantly did he annoy
His mother with his tricks,
Yet not a picayune cared I
For what he did or said,
Unless, as happened frequently,
The rascal wet the bed.
Closely he cuddled up to me,
And put his hands in mine,
'Til all at once I seemed to be
Afloat in seas of brine.
Sabean odors clogged the air,
And filled my soul with dread,
Yet I could only grin and bear
When Willie wet the bed.
'Tis many times that rascal has
Soaked all the bedclothes through,
Whereat I'd feebly light the gas
And wonder what to do.
Yet there he'd lie, so peaceful like;
God bless his curly head;
I quite forgave the little tyke
For wetting of the bed.
Ah me, those happy days have flown;
My boy's a father too,
And little Willies of his own
Do what he used to do.
And I! Ah, all that's left of me
Is dreams of pleasure fled;
Our boys ain't what they used to be
When Willie wet the bed.
9
Had I my choice, no shapely dame
Should share my couch with me,
No amorous jade of tarnished fame,
No wench of high degree;
But I should choose and choose again
The little curly head
Who cuddled close beside me when
He used to wet the bed.
*Field said his wife took the boy away on a visit, and he found, in his absence, he couldn't sleep 'til he got up and poured hot water on his shirt.
KING DAVID
EUGENE FIELD
David with a single stone the great Goliath slew,
But when he fucked Uriah's wife he found he needed two.
LOT
EUGENE FIELD
When good old Lot
A babe begot
Upon each lovely daughter,
He didn't wake
His ass to shake,
But slept on as he oughter.
10
SOCRATIC LOVE*
EUGENE FIELD
The story goes that Socrates, that wise Atthenian codger,
Carried, concealed about his clothes, a rare avis dodger,
Wherewith he used, when as he felt particularly nippy,
To ransack holes that did not appertain to his Xantippe.
Young Alcibiades, they say, was such a pink of fashion,
As to excite old Socrates into a flame of passion,
Which spurred him not Xantippewards to coddle and to hug 'er,
But filled him with a violent and lewd desire to bugger.
Now wit ye well that in those parts 'twas not considered nasty
For sage philosophers to turn their tools to pederasty.
The sapient Plato, whom they called in those old times The Master,
Did know a tergo, as they say, a pretty boy, hight Aster;
And old Diogenes, who thrived by raising of the dickens,
Was wont to occupy all bums, from pupils down to chickens;
Whilst that revered and austere man, the great and pious Solon,
Did penetrate a Thracian youth unto his transverse colon.
In short, it was the usual thing for horny Greeks to diddle
This gummy vent, instead of that with which the ladies piddle.
Now Alcibiades was tall and straight as any arrow;
His buttocks thrilled old Socrates unto his very marrow.
No hairs as yet profaned the vale that cleft those globes asunder,
No hairs to stay the fetid breath of bogborymal thunder,
No hairs to interrupt the course of his diurnal ordure
And gather from that excrement a rank dilberric bordure.
His sphincter was as fair a band, so Socrates protested,
As ever kept one's victuals in, or passed them undigested.
No hemorrhoids had ever marred its soft and sensuous beauty,
And on its virgin fords no prick had spent its pleasing duty;
Like some sweet bud it nested there; the winds blew gently through it
Scenting the breeze; Old Socrates more madly longed to do it.
11
But Alcibiades was wont to make absurd objection
When Socrates proposed the scheme of forming a connection.
The youth conceived the childish whim that buggery was nasty,
And kept the horny old philosopher from being hasty.
And so he grew from day to day, his bum waxed hourly fatter,
And Socrates was nearly dead to get at that fecal matter.
It so befell thtat on a day in sweaty summer weather,
They walked into the Acropolis quite casually together;
And as they walked the youth bent down to tie his sandal laces—
They always come unloosed, you know, at meanest times and places—
And as he stooped he lifted high and left without protection
The virgin tract of his lower gut from pod to sigmoid flexion.
For weeks and months old Socrates had had a priapism,
His pond'rous ods, a sight for Gods, were both surcharged with gism.
Seeing that bum and his first chance, he made up his mind to spot 'em,
So he hit 'em a lick with his Attic prick, and occupied Alcy's bottom.
In vain the poor Athenian boy begged, bellowed, pissed and farted;
Full twenty minutes 'lapsed before his friend and he were parted.
And while old Socrates explored the tantalizing glories
Of rugae and plicae, and quivering levatores,
The victim of his lust cried out: "Ehue, that all in vain I
Should to this hour have kept intact my rosy sphincter ani.
Fool that I was to keep it sweet and clean for this old odger!
With his three-cornered velper and his greasy balls to rodger!
Why did I not yield up my charms to Xenophon's embraces?
As I have had the chance to do at divers times and places?
Why not have given up my wealth of callipygous treasure
To handsome Cimon's burning lust or pious Plato's pleasure?
How would these men have gloried in my coy and virgin rectum,
With nary thought of vagrant dung, or cundoms to protect 'em;
But now, ye Gods, this lecherous goat with sardonic sculduggery
Doth rive my arse in twain with his incarnate god of buggery,
And when he pulls the pintle out with which just now he shuts in
The sigh my liver longs to vent, how shall I keep my guts in?"
12
Thus railed the youth against the fate that threatened to undo him;
But Soc, all heedless of his cries, right briskly socked it to him.
He packed his sperm so firmly in that colon soft and callow,
That when thereafter Alcy pooped the poop was mostly tallow.
*Written for and recited before the Papyrus Club of Boston in September,
1888.
IN IMITATION OF ROBERT HERRICK ON
JULIA UNLACING HERSELF
EUGENE FIELD
Tell, if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come
This camphire, storax, spikenard, galbanum;
These musks, these ambers, and those other smells
Sweet as the vestrie of the oracles.
I'll tell thee: While my Julia did unlace
Her silken bodice, but a breathing space,
The passing air such odor then assum'd,
As when to Jove great Juno goes perfum'd,
Whose pure immortal body doth transmit
A scent that fills both heaven and earth with it.
'Tis when my Julia sheds her hose
That there is wafted to my nose
An odor with such spices fraught
That I esteem all others naught;
And when she belches, what a smell
Of heliotrope and asphodel;
But when my Julia breaks her wind,
There issues from her fair behind
A breath that would become, I ween,
A Pallas or a Paphian Queen;
13
No hollow clamor speaks the birth
Of this etherial child of earth,
But hot and swift it mounts the air,
Dispensing savour everywhere;
Swooning with ecstacy, I kiss
The heaven that breathed this gale of bliss.
PARODY ON THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET
EUGENE FIELD
How dear to my heart is the oldfashioned harlot
When fond recollection presents her to view,
The madam, the whorehouse, and beer by the carlot,
And e'en the delight of the oldfashioned screw.
You may talk as you like of these new innovations
Imported from France and of which I've heard tell,
But give me the natural, carnal sensations
Of the oldfashioned harlot wohse surname was Belle.
How dear to my heart was the oldfashioned harlot
As she lay legs outstretched on her sumptuous bed,
While I, an imptuous horny young varlet,
Drove my dink to the hub in her spoiled maidenhead;
With her musk and her smile and her very bad grammar
She had cast over me quite a Paphian spell,
And I dearly delighted to fondle and cram her,
This oldfashioned harlot whose surname was Belle.
How dear to my heart was the oldfashioned harlot
Whose regular price was five dollars a leap,—
I was really quite fond of those women in scarlet
With whom I was wont, on occasion, to sleep;
You may sing as you please of the oldfashioned bucket
That hung or that swung in the moss-girdled well,
But give me a strumpet with leisure to fuck it
Like the oldfashioned harlot whose surname was Belle.
14
THE FAIR LIMOUSIN
EUGENE FIELD
Since Butler sang of dildoes, and Villon loved to treat
Of certain cross-grained margots whom he'd rogered on the street;
Since Rabelais and Rochester and Chaucer chose to sing
Of that which gave them subtle joy—that is to say, the thing,
Why should not I, an humble bard, be pardoned if I write
Of a certain strange occurence which has lately come to light?
One evening in December, on the Boulevard de Prix,
While the sombre bells of Notre Dame announced the hour of six,
A dapper wight named Edward met, tripping on her way,
A madam with a character and a gown quite decollte;
A babbling, buxom, blooming, billowy-bubbied dame,
Camille Maria Jesus Hector Limousin, by name.
Though fair she was of countenance, she was a lewd a bitch
As ever wallowed in a bed or mouzled in a ditch;
And maugre wealth or family, she was a foul a minx
As ever fondled scabby cods or nursed gangrescent dinks.
She tumbled one American, and with his drooling yard
The august house of Grevy fell, and fell almighty hard.
She toyed with Simon's senile tape, and burned Clemenceau's tail;
With howling Rochefort had she drunk of Mother Watkin's ale.
With Perier, and with Carnot, she had wrestled for a fall;
She had drained old Goulet 'til he lay, no good, against the wall.
She did not swive for sustenance, she rather lived to swive,
And at the two-backed feast she beat the veriest whore alive.
No prurient dame of high degree, no wench of tarnished fame,
Could be compared with Limousin at this close-buttock game.
The Greeks had sixteen postures, and the Hindoos sixty-four,
And Cleopatra's agregate was seventy-five or more.
What were a hundred postures to this fantastic queen?
She had at least a thousand, and each of them tres bien.
15
On top, the pumping method, or lying on the side,
Or spread upon her billowy bum, a la the blushing bride,
Or standing up, or sitting down, or resting on all four,
Whereby the visitor could take his choice of either door;
Or dressed, or naked, every way her genius could invent
To catch the silvery substance that tickleth when 'tis spent.
She'd nig-nog, duffle, snuggle, concomitate and quag;
She'd dance "The Shaking of the Sheets," fadoodle, wap and shag;
She'd "Come the Caster," niggle, jerk, and "Hear the
Nightingale;"
She'd nest-hide, dance "St. Leger's Round," and do it with her tail;
She'd break her leg above the knee, pound, click and tread as well,
And with a Holy Father, put the Devil into Hell.
She'd wrestle, bang, cohabit, futuore, cram and jig,
Jumme, copulate, accompany, swive, fornicate and frig;
Go goosing or grousing, and if needs be cooning go,
Rasp, roger, diddle, bugger, screw, canoodle, kife and mow.
There was no form of harlotry, nor any size of tarse,
That had not run the gauntlet 'twixt her nostrils and her arse.
What-shall I term that slimy pit-like orifice of sin,
That let her liquefactions out, and other factions in?
A tuppence, twitchet, coney, commodity or nock,
Pudendum, titmouse, dummel-herd, quaint merkin, naf or jock?
Call it whatever please you, there's nothing in a name,
And though it had been dubbed a rose, it would have smelt the same.
And he? He was as fine a buck as ever topped a ewe,
Or with his facile penis clave a virgin's clam in two.
The flush of lusty manhood lent its beauty to his face,
And the outlines of his sturdy frame were full of virile grace.
But what seemed fairer far than these, to Limousin's fair eyes,
Was the ne plus ultra velper that swung between his thighs.
16
To this illustrious pego and its adjacent flop,
Let other kingoes, lobs, and yards, in adoration drop;
These other virgas, placket-rackets, pintles, stunts and jocks,
And all the brood of priapismic, candidates for pox;
Fie, on the mewing mentulae, for what, oh, what were these
Beside that phallic glory that hung below his knees?
Your pillycocks are competent for tickling mouses' ears,
And tools hight lobs are brute enough to bring forth bridal tears,
But the velper that's ambitious to enact heroic roles
Must be of such proportions as to stretch the roomiest holes;
With dornicks so proficient that when they cease to spout,
The lady cannot pee the dose but has to cough it out.
This tool of his was one foot long, and had three corners to it;
Its beveled velvet head stood up, when in the mood to do it,
And as it stood, and breathed and purred, and murmured sort o' sadly,
What woman, if she felt at all, but hankered for it madly?
And then, those cods, when dainty hands in amorous dalliance squeezed 'em,
They'd throw a stream which, ladies say, beyond all telling pleased 'em.
This monumental penis had frigged through all creation,
The jibby, bouser, beagle, bawd of every nation;
The courtesan, the concubine, the siren and the harlot,
The widow in her grassy weeds, the splatter-dash in scarlet;
The madam in her drawing-room, with social homage honored,
The washee-washee almond eye, whose quim is cat-a-cornered.
From Colorado in the West, to Mannheim in the East,
(And that's a goodly distance—six thousand miles at least)
This prick had mown a swath of twats of every size and age,
So numerous I could not write their number on this page.
Wher'er he went he left behind a gory, gummy trail
Of lascerated, satiated, ripped-up female tail.
17
'Twas to the bearer of this tool that Limousin applied
For the pleasant little service that he'd never yet denied,
And when she asked him, "Voulez?" he was fly enough to see
He would have to meet a crisis, so he bravely answered, "Oui!"
A crisis is a crisis, but a French one, we've heard tell,
Out-crises all crises, and that is simply Hell.
He modestly unfolded his brodbingnagian prick,
And hit that foreign madam's thing just one gosh-awful lick;
She gave a grewsome tremor, and shrieked aloud, "Mon Dieu!"
Her eyeballs rolled up in her head, her lips turned black and blue;
But there she lay and sozzled 'till he pumped her full, and then
He went and hired a doctor to sew her up again.
I'D BE SATISFIED WITH LIFE: A PARODY
Anonymous
All I want is fifty thousand women,
Giving all their earnings right to me;
And then I want a harem of good-lookers—
If all the girls on Mason Street
Would only be right true to me—
If I only had just fifty tons of yen-she;
If I never thought I had to go
To Byron Hot Springs, then I know
That I'd be satisfied with life!
18
LYDIA PINKHAM
Anonymous
Have you ever heard of Lydia Pinkham
And her compound so refined,
It turns pricks to flowing fountains
And makes cunts grow on behind.
Then we'll sing, we'll sing,
We'll sing of Lydia Pinkham,
Saviour of the human race,
How she makes, she bottles,
She sells her vegetable compound,
And the papers publish her face.
Widow Brown, she had no children,
Though she loved them very dear,
So she took, she swallowed, she gargled,
Some Vegetable Compound,
And now she has them twice a year!
Chorus—
Willie Smith had peritonitis,
And he couldn't piss at all,
So he took, he swallowed, he gargled,
Some Vegetable Compound,
And now he's a human waterfall.
Chorus—
Mrs. Jones had rotten kidneys;
Poor old lady couldn't pee,
So she took, she swallowed, she gargled,
Some Vegetable Compound,
And now they pipe her to the sea.
Chorus—
19
Geraldine, she had no breastworks,
And she couldn't fill her blouse,
So she took, she swallowed, she gargled,
Some Vegetable Compound,
And now they milk her with the cows.
Chorus—
Arthur White had been castrated,
And had not a single nut,
So he took, he swallowed, he gargled,
Some Vegetable Compound,
And now they hang all 'round his but.
Chorus—
Walter Black was a bearded lady,
And his pecker wouldn't peck,
So he took, he swallowed, he gargled,
Some Vegetable Compound,
Now it's as long as gy-raffe's neck.
Chorus—
A TOAST
Anonymous
Here's to the men!
When I meet 'em, I like 'em,
When I like 'em, I kiss 'em,
When I kiss 'em, I love 'em,
When I love 'em, I let 'em,
When I let 'em, I loose 'em,
God-damn 'em!
20
THE MERRY MAID AND THE WICKED MONK
Anonymous
Good father, I have sent for you because
I would not temper with thy holy laws,
And yet, I know that something is amiss,
For when I see the youths and maidens kiss,
I tramble and my very knees grow weak,
Until my chamber I am forced to seek,
And there, with cheeks aflame, in floods of tears,
I toss with strangely mingled hopes and fears.
And father, strange to say, throughout the night,
Although my figure, as you see, is slight,
I dream I have a ripe, voluptuous form,
And strong arms, 'round me, hold me close and warm,
Until at last, I blush to say,
My very garments seem to melt away,
Until, as nature clad me, there I stand,
The willing victim to a wandering hand.
And at these times, when I seem not alone,
The form that holds me is not like my own.
It has not swelling globes here, such as these,
No sloping thighs, nor rounded dimpled knees,
And stranger still—pray, father dear, draw near,
The greatest difference seems to be—just—here.
Dear father, should I pray and fast in pain?
Or sleep and dream those blissful dreams again?
It seems not sin and yet my mirrow shows
A face where shame and deepest color grows.
Tell me it is not wicked, father dear,
To find myself with new sensations, here.
Ah heaven! You burn with fever too, it seems.
Are you, as well, a prey to fitful dreams?
21
And once I dreamed far more than I have told:
This handsome stranger once was overbold,
And I will show thee father, if I may
Just what was done. I could not but obey.
The Sun had set. The stars were in the sky,
And I was trembling, though I knew not why,
And here upon this couch I lay, like this,
When on my lips I felt a burning kiss.
Yes! That is like it! Just the very same!
My arms reached upward. I was not to blame.
For all my soul seemed hungering to feel
The strange delight that made my senses reel.
It seemed so strange that pleasure should be pain,
And yet I fain would suffer, once again.
'Twas thus—and so—and ever did I strain
To meet half way the source of all my pain.
My voice came fitful—broken—just now as now—
I was not mistress of myself I vow!
I clasped the spirit visitor like this—
Through all my veins I felt his maddening kiss.
My pulse went wild—I knew not what was done—
And—goodness gracious! ....
.....How that man can run!
MAN, THE HUMAN
Anonymous
Man on top of woman hasn't long to stay—
His head is full of business, and his ass is full of play;
He goes in like a lion, and comes out like a lamb;
Buttons up his pants, and doesn't give a damn!
22
EPIGRAMS FROM PRIAPUS
Selected from Priapeia. 1889
V.
Thought I be wooden Priapus (as thou see'st,)
With wooden sickle and with prickle of wood,
Yet will I seize you, Girl! and hold thee seized;
And This, however gross, withouten fraud,
Stiffer than lyre-string or than twisted rope
I'll thrust and bury to thy seventh rib.
IX.
Why laugh such laughter, O most silly maid?
My form Praxiteles nor Scopas hewed:
To me no Phidian handwork finish gave;
But me a bailiff hacked from shapeless log,
And quoth my maker, "Thou Priapus be!"
Yet on me gazing forthright gigglest thou
And holdeth funny matter to deride
The pillar perking from the groin of me.
XLIV.
What shouldst say this spear (though I'm wooden) be wishing
Whenas a maiden chance me in the middle to kiss.
Here none augur we need: Believe my word she is saying:—
"Let the rude spear in me work with its natural wont!"
LXXXIV.
What news be here? what send those angry Gods?
Whenas in silent night that snow-hued boy
To my warm bosom clasped lay concealed,
Venus was dormant nor in manly guise
My sluggard prickle raised his sluggard head.
23
LXXXIV. Continued
Art pleased (Priapus!) under leafy tree
Wont with wine-tendrils sacred sconce to wreathe
And seat thee ruddy with thy ruddled yard?
But, O Tryphallus, oft with freshest flowers
Artlessly garlanded thy brow be crowned
And with loud shouting often drove from thee.
What aged Raven or what agile Daw
Would peck thy holy face with horny beak.
Farewell, Priapus! naught to thee owe I,
Farewell, forsaker damn'd of private parts!
Pale with neglect amid the fields shalt lie
Where savage bandog shall bepiss thee or
Wild boar shall rub thee with his ribs mud-caked.
Accused organ! Oh, by whom my pains
Shall with sore righteous penalty be paid?
Howe'er thou 'plain, no more shall tender boy
Ope to thy bidding, nor on groaning bed
His mobile buttocks writhe with aiding art:
Nor shall the wanton damsel's legier hand
Stroke thee, or rub on thee her lubric thigh.
A two-fanged mistress, Romulus old remembering,
Awaits thee; middlemost whose sable groin
And hide time-loosened thou with coynte-rime bewrayed
And hung in cobwebs fain shalt block the way.
Such prize is thine who thrice and four times shalt
Engulf thy lecherous head in fosse profound.
Though slick or languid lie thou, still thou must
Rasp her 'til wretched, wretched thou shalt fill
Thrice or e'en fourfold times her cavernous gape;
And naught this haughty sprite shall Vail thee when
Plunging thine errant head in plashing mire.
Why lies it lazy? Doth its sloth displease thee?
For once thou mayest weaken it unavenged;
But when that golden boy again shall come,
Soon as his patter on the path shall hear,
24
LXXXIV. Continued.
Grant that a restless swelling rouse my nerve
Lustful a-sudden and upraise it high,
Nor cease excite it and excite it more
'Til wanton Venus burst my weaked side.
STRIP POKER
Anonymous
Betty and Billy, myself and fair Milly,
Once sat in a strip-poker game.
All of us truly were young and unruly,
But the pep it was there just the same.
The cards that I had were running quite bad,
Then suddenly, they came to me great:
From out of the slush, I cornered a flush
Of diamonds, the four to the eight.
Betty and Billy dropped out, leaving Milly
And yours very truly to fight it alone:
I raised it a tie and, flicker me eye,
She saw it and raised it a comb.
This kinda hurt, I saw with my shirt,
With a coat I raised in great haste.
She looked with her belt and, "Oi gevelt!"
Boosted it high with her waist.
But I didn't flinch, it sure was a cinch,
So I bet every stitch that I had.
She saw, if you please, with her silken chemise
And—(stopped by the censors)—too bad!
25
ANOTHER PIECE
Anonymous
"Now Bill," she said, "No more tonight,
For three you've had already."
She was indeed quite liberal,
But then, he was her steady.
"But," Bill replied with great emotion,
"Can't you see, dear, that I crave it,
And, furthermore, what is the use
In endeavoring to save it?"
"Learn to control yourself," she said,
"For soon we will be married;
Accomplish this, and happy we'll be."
This was how she parried.
"But it's ripe, my little angel girl,
And will not last forever."
She smiled, and answered tauntingly,
"Now, don't you think you're clever?"
"Oh my love," he said, "another piece,
I'll have it stripped, my dear;
One more will hurt neither you nor me
So banish your unfounded fear."
"Well here," she said, "you may have it,
But you must strip it yourself."
He slowly stripped the herbacious fruit
And ate the whole thing himself.
26
THE PIONEERS
Anonymous
The pioneers have hairy ears,
They piss through leather britches;
They wipe their ass on broken glass
Those hardy sons-of-bitches!
When cunt is rare they fuck a bear,
They knife him if he snitches;
They knock their cocks against the rocks,
Those hardy sons-of-bitches!
They take their ass upon the grass,
From fairies or from witches;
Their two-pound dinks are full of kinks,
Those hardy sons-of-bitches!
Without remorse they fuck a horse,
And beat him if he twitches;
Their mighty dicks are full of nicks,
Those hardy sons-of-bitches!
To make a mule stand for the tool,
He's beat with hickory switches;
They use their pricks for walking sticks,
Those hardy sons-of-bitches!
Great joy they reap from buggering sheep
In sundry bogs and ditches;
Nor give a damn if it be a ram—
Those hardy sons-of-bitches!
When booze is rare they do not care,
They take a shot of Fitches;*
They fuck their wives with butcher knives,
Those hardy sons-of-bitches!
* Fitches' hair tonic.
27
THE DIABETIC DOG
Anonymous
A farmer's dog came into town,
His Christian name was Runt.
A noble pedigree had he,
Noblesse oblige his stunt.
And as he trotted down the street,
'Twas beautiful to see
His work at every corner and
His work at every tree.
He watered every gateway too
And never missed a post,
For piddling was his specialty,
And piddling was his boast.
They city curs looked on amazed
With deep and jealous rage,
To see a simple country dog
The piddler of the age.
Then all the dogs from everywhere,
Were summoned by a yell
To sniff the country stranger o'er,
And judge him by his small.
Some thought that he a king might be,
Beneath his tail a rose,
So every city dog drew nigh
And sniffed it up his nose.
They smelled him over one by one,
They smelled him two by two,
And noble Runt, in high disdain,
Stood still 'til they were through.
28
Then just to show the whole shebang
He didn't care a dam',
He trotted to a grocery store
And piddled on a ham.
He piddled in a mackerel keg,
He piddled on the floor,
And when the grocer kicked him out,
He piddled through the door.
Behind him all the city dogs
Lined up with instinct true,
To start a piddling carnival
And see the stranger through.
They showed him every piddling post
They had in all the town,
And started in, with many a wink,
To pee the stranger down.
They sent for champion piddlers who
Were always on the go,
Who sometimes did a piddling stunt
Or gave a piddling show.
They sprung these on him suddenly
When midway in the town,
Runt only smiled, and polished off
The ablest, white and brown.
For Runt was with them every trick,
With vigor and with vim,
A thousand piddlers more or less
Were all the same to him.
So he was wetting merrily,
With hind legs kicking high,
When most were hoisting legs in bluff,
And piddling mighty dry.
29
Then on and on Runt sought new grounds,
By piles of scrap and rust,
'Til every city dog went dry
And only piddled dust.
But ever on went noble Runt
As wet as any rill,
And all the champion city pups
Were peed to a standstill.
Then Runt did freehand piddling,
With fancy fiisrt and flings,
Like double drip and gimlet twist,
And all that sort of thing.
And all the time this country dog
Did never wink nor grin,
But piddled blithely out of town
As he came piddling in.
Envoi:
The city dogs convention held,
To ask, "what did defeat us?"
But no one ever put them wise
That Runt had diabetes.
THRILLS AND SHOCKS
Anonymous
You may get thrills and shocks
In many different ways,
But the dif' 'tween thrills and shocks
Is but twenty-eight short days.
30
THE KHAN OF KUSPIDOR
Anonymous
In India, in royal state,
Dwelt an illustrious potentate.
When he would pass, the throngs would roar,
"Behold the Khan of Kuspidor!"
With mighty chest and skin of yellow,
He was a most imposing fellow;
And when, in his regalia dressed,
Diamonds and rubies spanned his chest.
To care for his domestic duties
He kept a thousand brunette beauties,
Who swarmed around his royal knees,|
Living a life of royal ease.
It kept his massive bollocks busy
Running the gamut from Maud to Lizzie,
And when he took his royal pleasure
The juice would fill a gallon measure.
The mass of hard-on that he carried
He'd plunge in every puss he married,
Or, to the horror of his harem,
He'd wave it at 'em just to scare 'em.
Tho strong and valorous in his might,
The Khan would rather frig than fight—
His dames acclaimed with one accord,
"The prick is mightier than the sword!"
Each night the Khan would hit his bed
He'd have a fresh-trapped maidenhead,
Which, after fondling with his finger,
He'd finish with his hairy stinger.
No dusky damsel dodged his wiles:
He could smell a cunt a thousand miles.
Sometimes the Khan would play the fool
And let a lady lip his tool,
But, "after all," he used to say,
"I like the good old fashioned way."
31
But time went on, the story said,
And rebellion reared its horrid head:
And all of the people to a man
Went out one night and rushed the Khan.
And now those people bow no more
Unto the Khan of Kuspidor.
'Tis said he's way down deep in Hades,
Running his red-hot tool in ladies!
LITTLE LESSONS
Anonymous
"Oh! You have touched me—deeply—
The young thing whispered low.
He pleaded: "Come! Oh, come with me !"
She could not answer, "No."
She said, "I'll be your pupil."
And added softly then,
"I may as well learn things from you
As to learn from other men."
They dined alone that evening,
And the young man got his wish.
They even broke the unwritten law
Of nevaire before ze feesh.
At half-past three next morning
He staggered home again,
She had taught him tricks he never knew,
That she'd learned from other men!
32
STACKOLEE
Anonymous
Stackolee was a good man:
Everybody he did love.
The pimps and whores all swore by Stack—
By the everlasting stars above
They all loved Stackolee!
What do you know about this—
What in 'ell do you know about that:
He killed old Billy Lyons
Over a damned old Stetson hat—
Poor old Stackolee!
They took him to the jail-house
And threw his ass in a cell.
All the whores and pimps went down
To bid poor Stack farewell—
Poor old Stackolee!
Judge Murphy rose for sentence;
His eyes were filled with tears.
He said. "I won't be hard on you, Stack,
I'll just give you ninety-nine years."
Poor old Stackolee!
Stack's girl was a good girl;
She was just as true as steel.
She said, "I'll get the dough for Stack,
On him I'll never squeal."
Poor old Stackolee!
33
She hustled in the morning,
She hustled in the night;
She got so thin from hustling
She was an awful sight.
She'd get the dough for Stackoleel
One night it rained like hell;
She had an awful time.
She said, "I won't break Stacko's luck."
She shook her fannie for a dime
Getting the dough for Stackolee!
She got a nice clean crib
Down behind the jail.
She hung a sign upon her door,
"Fresh fish here for sale."
She'd get the dough for Stackolee!
Another night she had bad luck:
She got an old nigger who gave her a buck;
She said, "You know I've got no change,
So give yourself another fuck
For poor old Stackolee!"
One night came a wireless
And everybody sighed;
It said that at 8:45
The poor old pimp had died.
Means a funeral for Stackolee!
When old Stack's girl
Heard this awful news,
She was seated at her bedside
Pulling on her shoes;
Having the blues for Stackolee!
34
They had a rubber-tired hearse
And had some rubber-tired hacks.
After that came a procession
Of about ten thousand macks.
Off to the grave of Stackolee!
When they got to the graveyard
And saw that awful hole,
Those pimps and whores fell on their knees
And asked the Lord to save their souls.
Beside the grave of Stackolee!
I never heard so much talk,
I never heard so much gab.
One pimp pulled out a needle,
In his arm he took a jab.
Beside the grave of Stackolee!
Another pimp's yen came on him;
I thought, by God, he'd choke—
He pulled out his bamboo, lit his lamp,
And laid on his hip to smoke.
Beside the grave of Stackolee!
An itchy-nosed pimp stepped out—
Said, "Folks, I ain't got much to say,"
Pulled out a bindle and took a bang,
Said, "Goodbye Doctor Gray."
At the grave of Stackolee!
And now he's gone, why, let him go;
Poor Stack is now in his last hole;
And all the whores and pimps they say
"May the Lord have mercy on his soul."
—And that's the last of Stackolee!
35
LOVE'S POWER
Anonymous
"O Sir," quoth the pretty maid,
"Let me know what 'tis you would have?
For you need not at all be afraid,
I will grant what in reason you crave:
For I ne'er in my life would deny
What a man did in justice require;
But you and I soon shall comply,
And I'll warrant I'll quench thy love's fire."
"If thou art so earnest do dally,
Come make use of time while you may,
Thy skill I will not undervalue,
Then prithee, Love, let's to the play:
Methinks thou art somewhat too devious;
'Tis time we should have been nigher,
To linger it seems to be grevious,
I'll warrant I'll quench thy love's fire."
The young man supposing her greedy
Fell eagerly into the sport,
He found she was wanting and needy,
And needless it was for to court.
But as they were hugging together,
She cried, "O come nigher and nigher."
His heart was as light as a feather,
And he had both his wish and desire.
The damsel was mightily pleased,
And kissed him a thousand times o'er,
Quoth she, "Now my sorrows are eased,
But I must have a little touch more:
O, lie down for a while to rest thee,
That I may enjoy my desire;
I hope that the fates they will bless thee;
I quench, but thou kindlest my fire."
36
No longer he stood there delaying,
But stoutly he fell to it again,
Where he gave a prod at their playing
The damsel returned him ten;
For she grew more eager and eager,
Her eyes they did sparkle like fire,
Quoth he, "I do own I am the weaker,
But still I enjoy my desire."
The young man began for to tire
And his cudgel began to lay down,
Which made the young damsel admire
And straight she began for to frown:
Quoth he, "I have done what is fit,
No reason can more require;"
But her brows upon her then she knit,
And still she did want her desire.
*SWEET AND PRETTY LITTLE NOSE
Anonymous
Oh, sweet and pretty little nose, so charming unto me;
Oh, were I but the sweetest rose, I'd give my scent to thee.
Oh, make it full and honey sweet, that I may such it all;
T'would be for me the greatest treat, a real festival.
How sweet and how nutritious your darling nose does seem;
It would be more delicious than strawberries and cream!
*This is the acme of rottenness—with, however, a Pathological explanation.
It
occurs on page 225 of Kraft-Ebbing's Psychopathia Sexualis (XII edition, The
Rebman Co., New York) referring to body-fetichism, and nose-fetichisra in
particular. Kraft-Ebbing gives it as coming to him from England.
37
*THE CHISHOLM TRAIL
A Cowboy Song
Now get 'round boys and listen to my tale,
And learn my troubles on the Chisholm Trail;
- Come a ti yi yippy, come a ti yi yay,
Come a ti yi yippy, yippy yay!
Left Texas on October twenty-third
And travelled up the trail with he 2 U herd;
Chorus:
With saddled ass and pony on the lope,
I am the best man who ever throwed a rope.
Chorus:
On a ten dollar horse and a forty dollar saddle
Comes I from Texas with the long-horn cattle.
Chorus:
The boys found a stray and the boss said, "Kill it,"
So I shot him in the ass with the end of a skillet.
Chorus:
Always afore I sleep the moon shines bright,
And I am up in the mornin' 'afore daylight.
Chorus:
It's cloudy in the West and looks like rain,
And my god-damn slicker's in the wagon again.
38
Chorus:
My name is Bill Taylor and my love's a squaw,
Who lives on the banks of the muddy Wichita.
Chorus:
I asked for tail and I handed her a quarter;
Says she, "Young man, I'm a cowpuncher's daughter."
Chorus:
So out comes a dollar to fill her greasy hand;
Says she, "Young man, will your old dingwallace stand?"
Chorus:
I grabbed her then and throwed her on the grass,
My toe-holt slipped and I rammed it up her ass.
Chorus:
I fucked her standin' and I fucked her lyin'
And if she'd had some wings I'd a fucked her flyin'.
Chorus:
Says she, "Young man, you're nothin' but a kid"--
Says she, "You'll remember me." And, b'God, I did.
Chorus:
'Bout nine days on my prick began to swell,
And I wisht that squaw in the lowest pits o' hell.
Chorus:
I weent to the big boss for to draw my roll,
And he had figured me nine dollars in the hole.
39
Chorus:
So I sold old Baldy and hung up the saddle,
And then I bid farewell to the god-damn cattle.
Chorus:
* The Chisholm Trail was named for Jesse Chisholm, a half-breed Indian,
who piloted the first herd of long-horns from Texas to the then newly completed U. P. railroad in Western Kansas. Dodge City was the northern
terminus of the road and for several years enormous herds of cattle were
trailed up from Texas to be shipped to Eastern markets.
WHAT MY WIFE WANTS TONIGHT
Anonymous
I wonder what my wife will want tonight;
Wonder if the wife will fuss and fight?
I wonder can she tell
That I've been raising hell;
Wonder if she'll know that I've been tight?
My wife is just as nice as nice can be,
I hope she doesn't feel too nice toward me;
For an afternoon of joy
Is hell on the old boy.
I wonder what the wife will want tonight!
40
HOOKSHOP KATE
Anonymous
Did you ever hear of the grewsome fate
That befell the heroine Hookshop Kate?
Though now she has passed to the Great Beyond
She once was the queen of the demi-monde.
She was not so handsome as looks go,
But when it came to jazzing that gal could go;
And the one pet brag of Hookshop Kate
Was that she'd never met her mate.
When the gold stampede caused a restless much,
Hookshop Kate got in the rush;
She cast all civilized tools adrift,
For she heard that cocks in the North froze stiff,
And figured that guys with frozen pep
Would never have to watch their step.
For conventional methods were out of date
In a frigging match with Hookshop Kate.
She landed in Fairbanks one winter's night,
And issued her challenge to all in sight;
And all the miners who tested her power
Were frigged to a whisper inside of an hour.
And the records show, before Spring came,
That every man in town was lame;
For not one could travel the gait
That was set by amorous Hookshop Kate.
With an air of contempt she sallied forth
And bade farewell to the frozen North.
She headed straight for Hawaii's Isles,
Where men were decked in Nature's smiles;
Hoping in vain that the naked truth
Would show her a man with pep and youth.
But alas! she was doomed to the same sad fate,
For none was the equal of Hookshop Kate.
41
Then the Hawaiians placed her on a throne,
And crowned here queen of the Frigging Zone,
Where she reigned supreme for two short years,
But one morning her subjects found her in tears.
When they asked the cause she only sighed,
And they knew she longed to be satisfied;
So they resolved to find her a mate
Who could crimp the back of Hookshop Kate.
They inserted a luring, sensuous ad
In the Woman's Monthly, and it had
A very wondrous quick effect
In bringing news of things erect:
A bookseller came upon the scene
And asked to be ushered to the queen;
For he claimed he knew of a potentate,
Who could outfrig great Hookshop Kate.
'Twas a sheep-herder from a distant Isle,
Who had never been tempted by woman's wile;
But had spent his life with his wandering flock,
Developing by hand his phenomenal cock.
'Twas a daily thing for him, they said,
To frig sixty sheep ere he went to bed.
When this happy data reached Hookshop Kate
She sent for this sheepish potentate.
The bookseller found him flat on a rock
Breaking cocoanuts with his muscular cock,
And he laughed up his sleeve as he placed a bet
On the frigging that Hookshop Kate would get.
He convinced the herder that frigging sheep
Was an action base, profane and cheap;
As a bookseller will, he proved that fate
Had called him to satisfy Hookshop Kate.
42
When they arrived on Hawaii's shore,
The town was bedecked as never before;
And the band was playing to welcome them in,
And all was in readiness to begin.
The herder and bookseller lead the parade,
Followed by virgins and Redlight Jade,
And the whole procession marched in state
To the very door of Hookshop Kate.
The fray was scheduled for ten o'clock.
Meanwhile the sheep-herder tuned up his jock
By trying it out on a dozen of dames,
Who acknowledged that he was a bundle of flames.
As the hour drew near the betting was great—
The number of times would be marked on a slate—
'Twas a frig to a finish without a wait,
Much to the delight of Hookshop Kate.
When the clock struck ten came a breathless pause—|
The sheep-herder entered 'mid great applause—
In front, his pants stuck out two feet
In anticipation of one real treat;
While in the chamber with curtains drawn
Was Hookshop Kate just egging him on—
Outside, the crowd decided to wait
And see what would happen to Hookshop Kate.
Outside, that night, the vigil was kept,
And not a single eye had slept;
And the moans and groans and grunts inside
Swayed the throng like an ebbing tide.
They all left marks of their butts behind,
And not one dry spot could you find --
But all sat tight to learn the fate
Of her frigging highness Hookshop Kate.
43
Next morning the bookseller came with the key
To decide what the herder's fate should be.
He found the slate, as he felt in the dark—
Passed it out to the crowd to examine the mark—
They counted a hundred and sixty or more.
Then the bookseller threw wide open the door—
When the lights went on, to their surprise
This is the sight that met their eyes:
With a happy smile, propped up in bed,
The famous Hookshop Kate was dead.
While under the bed the sheep-herder guy
Jacked off at the post without batting an eye:
And he murmured, at each violent jerk,
And in intervals between each squirt,
"All your Hookshop cunt you can keep
If you hurry me back to my lovely sheep."
A PASTORAL
Anonymous
The sheep-herder lay in the tall, tall grass,
And his favorite dog lay close to his ass.
Through a hole in his worn blue overalls
A toothless ewe was licking his balls.
A magpie sat on the fence close by
And gazed on the scene with a watchful eye—
His gun went off—and the old ewe quit—
The hound dog yelped—and the magpie shit!
44
THE BASTARD KING OF ENGLAND
RUDYARD KIPLING
Oh, the bards they sing of an English King
Who lived long years ago;
And he ruled his land with an iron hand,
But his mind was weak and low.
He was used to hunt the royal stag
Within his royal wood,
But 'twas none but knew that his greatest sport
Was pulling his royal pud.
And his nether garb was a woolen shirt
Which used to hide his hide;
But this undershirt couldn't hide the dirt
That no one could abide.
He was wild and wooly and full of fleas
That humans ne'er could stand;
And his terrible dong to his knees hung down—
The Bastard King of England !
Now the Queen of Spain was an amorous dame,
A sprightly dame was she,
And she longed to fool with his Majesty's tool
So far across the sea.
So she sent a note to the dirty King
By her royal messenger,
And requested his Majesty's sailing to Spain
To spend a month with her.
But when Philip of France got the news one day,
He turned to all his court
And he said, "My fair Queen prefers this clown
Because my tool is short."
So he sends abroad Marquis Siphylissap,
Who smacked of fairyland,
To supply the Queen with a dose of clap
To trap our Dear Old England.
45
Then the news of this filthy deed was heard
In Windsor's merry halls,
And the King did swear he would have anon
The Frenchman's greasy balls.
So he offered the half of all his lands,
And the whole of Queen Hortense,
To the trusty lord of his English court
Who'd nut the King of France.
So the loyal Duke of Essexshire
Betook himself to France;
When he swore he was a fruiter the King
Took down his royal pants:
Then around his prong he tied a thong
And gaily galloped along
'Til at last in Windsor's merry halls,
Was the Frenchman and his dong.
And the King threw up, and he shit his pants;
For in the lengthy ride
The thong had stretched by a yard or more
The fucking Frenchman's pride.
And then all the ladies of London town
Who saw the mighty stand
Cried aloud, "To hell with the English Crown,"
And made Philip King of England.
HIS ONLY LIMITATION
Anonymous
My cock has been in many cunts,
But in never more than one at once!
46
A REHEARSAL
Anonymous
I'm thinking of the rainy night—
The rest had hurried home—
And we, in Deacon Foster's pew,
Were sitting all alone;
You were a seeker then, dear Will,
But not of things above—
The length, the depth, the breadth, the height
Of everlasting love—
Oh! What sweet words of love you spoke,
And kissed away each tear;
And how I trembled at the thought
Lest someone should appear;
But when you turned the lights all out,
To guard against surprise,
I bade farewell to every fear
And wiped my weeping eyes.
I thought, could I these doubts remove,
These gloomy doubts that rise,
And see the Canaan that we love
With unbeclouded eyes!
And as you climbed the pulpit stairs,
And viewed the landscape o'er,
Not Jordan's stream, nor Death's cold flood
Could fright us from the floor.
And when you fixed the cushions up,
And I reclined at ease,
The pulpit pillow 'neath my head,
And you on bended knees;
With your warm kisses on my lips,
How could I stay your hand;
The veil wsa lifted, and by faith
You viewed the promised land.
47
And Oh, what rapturous feelings
Thrilled every nerve, and when
I cried, Oh Lord, my heart is touched,
You shouted out, Amen!
My very soul was all ablaze,
I thought that I could see
The land of rest, the saint's delight,
The heaven prepared for me.
I thought, a charge to keep I have
With mingled fear and shame;
How anxiously I watched, dear Will,
'Til I came 'round again!
In my distress I vainly strove
To check the welling tears.
The precious blood poured freely forth
And conquered all my fears.
But that was many years ago,
And I've no doubt that you
Remember still the rainy night
In Deacon Foster's pew!
But Oh, my first experience
Will ne'er forgotten be
While down the stream of life we glide
To our eternity.
POOR WHITE TRASH
Anonymous
The rich man uses vaseline,
The poor man uses lard,
The nigger uses axle grease
But he gets it twice as hard!
48
FRANKIE AND JOHNNIE
Anonymous
Frankie and Johnnie were lovers:
Goodness, Oh God! How they'd love—
Swore to be true to each other,
True as the stars above.
For he was her man,
But he done her wrong!
Frankie was a good girl,
Most everybody knows,
She gave a hundred dollars
To Johnnie for a suit of clothes.
Cause he was her man,
But he done her wrong!
Frankie worked in a crib-joint,
A place that's got two doors;
Gave all her money to Johnnie,
Who spent it on parlor-house whores.
God-damn his soul,
He done her wrong!
Frankie was a fucky hussy—
That's what all the pricks said—
And they kept her so damn busy,
She never had time to get out of bed.
But he done her wrong,
God-damn his soul,
Frankie hung a sign on her door,
"No more fish for sale."
Then she went looking for Johnnie
To give him all her kale.
He was a-doin' her wrong,
God-damn his soul,
49
Frankie went down Fourth Street
To get a glass of steam-beer;
Said to the man called bartender,
"Has my lovin' Johnnie been here?
God-damn his soul,
He's a-doin' me wrong!"
"I couldn't tell you no story,
I couldn't tell you no lie,
I saw your Johnnie an hour ago
With a coon called Alice Bly.
God-damn his soul,
He was a-doin' you wrong!"
Frankie ran back to the crib-joint,
Took the oilcloth off the bed,
Took out a bindle of coke
And snuffed it right up in her head;
God-damn his soul
He was a-doin' her wrong!
Then she put on her red kimona,
This time it wasn't for fun;
Cause right underneath it
Was a great big forty-four gun.
She went huntin' her man,
Who was a-doin' her wrong!
She ran along Fish Alley,
And looked in a window high,
And she saw her lovin' Johnnie
Finger-frigging Alice Bly.
He was a-doin' her wrong,
God-damn his soul!
50
Frankie went to the hop-joint,
Frankie rang the hop-joint bell:
"Stand back you pimps and whores,
Or I'll blow you straight to hell.
I'm huntin' my man,
Who's a-doin' me wrong!"
Frankie ran up the stairway—
Johnnie hollered, "Please don't shoot!"
But Frankie raised the forty-four
And went five times, root-ti-toot.
She shot her man,
'Cause he done her wrong!
"Turn me over Frankie,
Turn me over slow;
A bullet got me on my right side,
Oh Gawd! It hurts me so.
You've killed your man,
But I done you wrong!"
Then came the scene in the courthouse:
Frankie said, as bold as brass,
"Judge, I didn't shoot him in the third degree,
I shot him in his big fat ass;
'Cause he was my man,
An' was a-doin' me wrong!"
Bring out your rubber-tired hearse.
Bring out your rubber-tired hacks.
Hearse to take Johnnie to the cemetery;
Hacks to bring all the whores back:
For he's dead and gone,
'Cause he done her wrong!
51
They brought a rubber-tired hearse,
And brought out rubber-tired hacks:
Thirteen pimps went to the cemetery
But only twelve came back.
He's dead and gone,
He was a-doin' her wrong!
The sergeant said to Frankie,
"It may all be for the best,
He always chased 'round parlor-house whores,
He sure was an awful pest;
Now he's dead and gone,
He was a-doin' her wrong!"
Three little pieces of crepe
Hanging on the crib-joint door,
Signifies that Johnnie
Will never be a pimp no more.
God-damn his soul,
He done her wrong!
JIM TAYLOR
Anonymous
My name is Jim Taylor,
My cock is a whaler,
My bollocks weigh ninety-four pound;
And when I fuck Anna
I fuck 'er God-damn 'er,—
I drive her ass into the ground.
52
A FOOL THERE WAS
Apologies to Kipling
A fool there was and he met a belle,
Even as you and I;
Even as you and I;
And he took her to a swell hotel,
Even as you and I;
And he thought himself a smart young gink
As he wrote and wife with the pen and ink,
And slyly gave the clerk a wink;
Even as you and I.
They went up the hallway and into the room,
Even as you and I.;
Trying their best to look bride and groom,
Even as you and I;
She was Frisco's most beautiful belle,
And the fool was all set to give her hell,
But when you're past forty you never can tell.
Even as you and I.
She took off her shirtwaist and showed her white breast,
Even as you and I;
And he stripped right down to the hair on his chest,
Even as you and I;
They jumped into bed, his brain was a-fire,
He was anxious as hell and mad with desire,
When he suddenly discovered he had a flat tire,
Even as you and I.
The Fool sat up and he made a prayer,
Even as you and I;
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
And for once in his life he prayed on the square;
But the beautiful maid gave up in despair,
She sent for a chink, gave the fool the air.
Even as you and I.
53
THE BALLAD OF YUKON JAKE
TED PARMENTIER
Oh, the North Countree is a hard countree
That mothers a bloody brood;
And its icy arms hold hidden charms
For the greedy, the sinful and lewd,
And strong men rust from the gold and lust
That sears the Northland's soul;
But the wickedest born, from the Pole to the Horn,
Is the Hermit of Sharktooth Shoal.
Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit's name,
In the days of his pious youth,
Ere he cast a smirch on the Baptist Church
By betraying a girl named Ruth.
But now men quake at Yukon Jake,
The Hermit of Sharktooth Shoal;
For that is the name that Jacob Kaime
Is known by from Nome to the Pole;
He was just a boy and the parson's joy
Ere he fell for the gold and the muck,
And he learned to pray 'mid the hogs and hay
On a farm near Keokuk.
But a service tale of illicit kale—
And whiskey and women wild,
Drained the morals clean as a soup tureen
From this poor but honest child.
He longed for the bite of a Yukon night
And the Northern-lights' weird flicker,
Or a game of stud in the frozen mud
And the taste of raw red likker.
He wanted to mush along in the slush,
With a team of huskie hounds,
And to fire his gat at a beaver hat,
And knock it out of bounds.
54
So he left his home for the hell-town Nome,
On Alaska's ice-ribbed shores,
And he learned to curse and drink, and worse,
'Til the rum dripped from his pores;
When the boys on a spree were drinking it free
Ina Malamute saloon,
And Dan McGrew and his dangerous crew
Shot craps with a piebald coon;
While the kid on his stool banged away like a fool
At a jag-time melody,
And the barkeep vowed to the hardboiled crowd
That he'd cremate Sam McGee;
Then Jacob Kaime, who had taken the name
Of Yukon Jake the Killer,
Would rake the dive with his forty-five
'Til the atmosphere grew chiller;
With a sharp command he'd make 'em stand
And deliver their hard earned dust;
Then drink the bar dry of rum and rye,
As a Klondike bully must;
Without coming to blows he would tweak the nose
Of Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And, becoming bolder, throw over his shoulder
The lady that's known as Lou.
Oh, tough as a steak was Yukon Jake,
Hardboiled as a picnic egg;
He washed his shirt in Klondike dirt,
And drank his rum by the keg.
In fear of their lives, or because of their wives,
He was shunned by the best of his pals;
And outcast he, from the cameraderie
Of all but wild animals.
So he bought him the whole of Sharktooth Shoal,
A reef in the Bering Sea,
Where he lived by himself on a sea-lion's shelf
In lonely iniquity.
55
But miles away, in Keokuk,
Did a lovely maiden fight
To remove the smirch from the Baptist Church
By bringing the heathen light;
And the elders declared that all would be squared
If she carried the Holy Words
From her Keokuk home to the hell-hole Nome
And save those awful birds.
So two weeks later she took a freighter
For the gold-cursed land near the Pole,
Blut heaven ain't made for a girl that's betrayed,
She was wrecked on Sharktooth Shoal!
All hands were tossed in the sea and lost,
All but the maiden Ruth,
Who swam to the edge of the sea-lion's ledge
Where abode the love of her youth.
He was hunting a seal for his evening meal
(He handled a mean harpoon)
When he saw at his feet not something to eat,
But a girl in a frozen swoon;
He dragged her to his lair by the frozen hair,
And he rubbed her knees with gin-
To his great surprise she opened her eyes,
And revealed—his original sin!
His eight months' beard grew still and weird,
And it felt like a chestnut burr;
He swore by his gizzard and the Arctic blizard,
That he'd do right by her.
The cold sweat froze on the end of his nose,
'Til it gleamed like a Teckla pearl,
While her bright hair fell like a flame from hell
Down the back of the grateful girl.
56
But a hopeless rake was Yukon Jake,
The Hermit of Sharktooth Shoal;
And the dizzy maid he re-betrayed,
And wrecked her immortal soul!
Then he rowed her ashore with a broken oar,
And he sold her to Dan McGrew
For a huskie dog and a hot egg-nog,
As rascals are wont to do.
Now ruthless Ruth is a maid uncouth
With scarlet cheeks and lips,
And she sings rough songs to the drunken throngs
That come from the sealing ships.
For a rouge-stained kiss from this infamous miss
They will give a seal's sleek fur,
Or perhaps a sable, if they are able,
For it's all the same to her.
Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree
That mothers a bloody brood;
And its icy arms hold hidden charms,
For the sinful, the greedy and lewd;
And strong men rust with the gold and lust
That sears the Northland's soul,
But the wickedest born from the Pole to the Horn,
Is the Hermit of Sharktooth Shoal.
HIZZEN AND HERN
Anonymous
Drifting down the stream of izzen,
They were seated in the stern,
And she had her hand on hizzen,
And he had his hand on hern.
57
GOOD MORNING MISTER FISHERMAN
Anonymous
Good morning mister fisherman, I wish you very well,
Good morning mister fisherman, I wish you very well;
Pray tell me have you any sea-crabs for to sell?
Mush a ding eye, mush a doo eye day!
I have got sea-crabs, one—two—three,
I have got sea-crabs, one—two—three;
So take any that you want for its all the same to me.
Mush a ding eye, mush a doo eye day!
So I grabbed one by his backbone,
So I grabbed one by his backbone;
And I rustled and I tussled 'til I got the bastard home.
Mush a ding eye, mush a doo eye day!
When I got home everybody was asleep,
When I got home everybody was asleep;
. So I put him in the pisspot there for to keep.
Mush a ding eye, mush a doo eye day!
The ould woman got up to do a little squat,
The ould woman got up to do a little squat;
And the go-damned sea-crab grabbed her by the twat.
Mush a ding eye, mush a doo eye day!
Ould man, ould man, what shall I do,
Ould man, ould man, what shall I do?
The divil's in the pisspot and's got me by the flue.
Mush a ding eye, mush a doo eye day!
So I ran over and lifted up her clothes,
So I ran over and lifted up her clothes;
And he took his other pincher and he grabbed me by the nose
Mush a ding eye, mush a doo eye day!
58
Now Johnny, have the doctor hitch up his horse and cart,
Now Johnny, have the doctor hitch up his horse and cart;
To get your father's nose and your mother's arse apart.
Mush a ding eye, mush a doo eye day!
DON'T LOOK AT ME THAT WAY, STRANGER
Anonymous
Don't look at me that way, stranger—
I didn't shit in your seat;
I've just come down from the mountains
And my balls are covered with gleet.
I've been up in the Lehigh Valley—
Me an' me old pal Leu,
A-pimpin' for a whorehouse,
And a God-damned fine one, too.
It was there that I first fucked Nellie,
She was the village belle;
I was only a low-down pander,
But I loved that girl like Hell!
But along comes a city slicker,
All handsome and gay and rich,
And he stole away my Nellie,
The stinkin' son-of-a-bitch!
I'm just restin' my ass a moment,
And when I'm on my way;
I'll get the runt that swiped my cunt,
If it takes 'til judgment day!
59
THE SKIN MAN
Anonymous
O some may sing of a surgeon's skill—
He wields a wicked blade—
While not a few prefer G. U.—
'Tis not a tidy trade;—
Pure science has her acolytes,
A brave devoted band,
But I'd rather be a skin-man,
And with the skin-men stand.
Outside the throat-room's dreadful door,
The knitting women wait,
While all unseen the guillotine
Keeps up its ghastly gait;
Like plums upon the dewy grass
The tender tonsils fall,
But neither they nor adenoids
Intrigue my thoughts at all.
The skin-man never is aroused,
As breaks the morning pale,
By vehement parturiant
Or ailing infants' wail,
Nor is he snatched from Morpheus' arms—
From some delicious dream—
To aid an old prostatic case
Who cannot start his stream.
Behind his broad expansive desk,
Mayhap of tropic teak,
He views the rash and takes the cash
And does it week on week;
His mind is calm, his spirits blithe,
His future is assured.
They're never quickly cured.
60
With ointments bland he tries his hand
To soothe, but, ere too late,
If soothing makes them worse again,
Then he can stimulate;
If stimulation aggravates,
His course runs ever smooth,
For he can cease to stimulate
And start once more to soothe.
No paladin of Arthur's age,
No gleaming, crested knight
Of old romance, had such a chance
His lady to delight;
For him that blush of damask rose,
For him that downcast eye,
Who drives the ringworm from her cheek,
The itchmite from her thigh.
The lady fine,—the concubine,
The virgin and the priest
Discard their pants in bacchic dance
From lieus now released;
Tabetic and paretic
In corybanic maze,
Surround the guy that got them by
And raise their songs of praise.
So farewell dematitis,
From you forever free,
Goodbye the bugs that bite us,
The louse, the tick, the flea.
Edema and erythema,
Pruritis-ani too,
Like driven snow from head to toe,
We bid you all adieu.
61
THE SHIP'S IN THE HARBOR
Anonymous
Oh, the ship's in the harbor,
She lies by the dock,
Like a young girl and a young man
With a stiff standing—
—haul away for the mainsail,
The main-top-set-sail,
Haul away for the mainsail,
The main-top-set-sail.
And there was young Johnny,
The pride of her crew,
Who liked to drink whiskey
And also to—
—water the garden when
He was at home,
Water the garden when
He was at home.
He could dive like a diver,
He could swim like a duck,
He could show the young ladies
A new way to—
—save their sweet lives if
A cramp they should take,
Save their sweet lives if
A cramp they should take.
But alas, we put it in at
A far Northern port,
And he froze it in chasing
And broke it off—
62
—half way to Juneau,
And half way to Nome,
Half way to Juneau,
And half way to Nome.
Oh, the ship's in the harbor,
She lies by the dock,
But alas for poor Johnny,
He has no more—
—yardarm to splice with,
Or topmast to brace,
Yardarm to splice with,
Or topmast to brace.
BERKELEY
Anonymous
O, Harvard is run by Princeton,
And Princeton is run by Yale,
And Yale is run by Vassar,
And Vassar's run by tail;
But Stanford's run by stud-horse juice,
They say its made by hand,
It's the house of clap and syph,
It's the asshole of the land.
63
THE FALL OF MAN
Anonymous
So beautiful the earth, in Nature's eyes,
A soul was sent to dwell, in human guise,
A form of God-like beauty and of might,
To drink the sunshine and to dream at night.
Strange visions came to Nature's first child, Man:
In those old days, when first the world began,
Unclad and lone he roved from spot to spot
And longed and yearned for something which was not.
Until, at last, a prayer went up to heaven
And Nature's noblest gift to man was given:
A gentle, throbbing, trembling, beauteous maid,
Fair as a man, but with a softer shade,
Endowed with beauty and a thousand charms
That sought the sheltering clasp of loving arms.
As children play, in childhood's happy hours,
They romped and played among the sylvan bowers,
Or sported in the streams whose waters sweet
Ran cool beneath the trees at noonday's heat.
And when night's sable banners were unfurled
And darkness wound her arms about the world,
On bed of roses, in some vine-clad nest,
Their drowsy senses found untroubled rest,
And wandering zephers swept across them there,
Unclad, but unashamed, in Eden fair.
No thought had come to them of wild desire
And yet, at times, a smouldering, hidden fire
Seemed slumbering deep within, and fiercer burned.
When, in their sleep, they toward each other turned.
64
One ambient night of blissful summertime,
A perfect night of Eden's balmy clime,
Eve stretched her languorous limbs in restless sleep
And Adam, at her side, sought slumber deep.
Some trifling thing, perhaps a wind-swayed fern,
A leaf—a bird—caused both of them to turn.
Eve's rounded arm was thrown above her head,
Her dimpled knee just lifted from her bed,
When, by chance, this trifle, light as air,
Their warm lips met and, trembling, lingered there.
They slept no more from dusk to rosy dawn,
'Mongst roses red or on some grassy lawn,
But wakened often, from strange dreams of bliss,
To find their mouths all melting in a kiss.
Their hearts were filled with vague, unknown desire,
Nor knew they to quench this wondrous fire.
A wild unrest upon them settled down
And Adam's brow would often wear a frown,
And then again, he'd stroke her glorious hair,
And gaze into her eyes and call her fair,
Then clasp her fiercely, with encircling arm,
As though to shield her from impending harm;
Then wildly kiss her—eyes—mouth—neck and breast,
While she against him, tightly, closely press't.
Still waited, hungered, starved for something more,
Yet little knew what Nature had in store.
Eve's little, truant, tapering fingers slim,
Beloved of Adam and caressed him,
By accident one night, got wondrous wise,
And found just where the trees of knowledge rise.
Amazed, surprised, confounded, if you please,
But, womanlike, inclined a bit to tease,
She tried experiments of many a kind,
To learn by which she most delight could find.
65
And Adam, dizzy with her new-found charms,
Gave way to every pressure of her arms
And gave her childish innocence full sway,
Nor cared to check her or say her "Nay."
Then suddenly with savage, passionate clasp,
She drew him to her with an eager grasp
And sank exhausted, yet with cheeks aflame,
A-thrill with feelings which she could not name.
And Adam, swept away on seas of bliss,
Poured all his soul in one long, clinging kiss.
'Twas pain, 'twas pleasure, 'twas a joy intense.
It seemed as tho along each quivering sense,
Swift rivulets of fire had found their way
And burned their hearts. They knew not night nor day,
Nor life, nor death, nor aught that mortals know.
Nor dreamed they, even yet, of further joy,
The one swift dream that comes without alloy,
And bends two loving natures into one,
Too sweet to last—that ends ere 'tis begun.
It came to them like lightening from the sky.
Each thought the very hour of death was nigh,
Yet longed to live. Delirious pain
Went sweeping through their inmost souls again
And black oblivion brooded for an hour,
O'er passion's birth in Eden's rosy bower.
They only knew they loved each other so.
And when at last, Eve wakened from her swoon,
The night had fled. The glare of Eden's noon
Sent showers of golden light through waving trees,
And subtle fragrance lingered on the breeze.
66
1
Throughout the realm of Eden's joyous bower,
All things that live were happy in that hour,
For, led by sweet desire, example given,
They found on earth, the one foretaste of heaven.
And since you must know all there is to know,
Her thirst for knowledge, seeking to know all,
Discovered first the secret of the Fall.
But sought the source of her new-found delight,
Turned pale, grew faint, and trembled at the sight:
The trees of knowledge stood—Ah yes, it stood.
Past tense, you see—and while the past was good,
The present need was great without a doubt
And pretty Eve began to fret and pout.
Swept and sighed and said, "I see it all,
For here was life and there, alas! the Fall."
MARY'S LITTLE WATCH
Anonymous
Mary had a little watch,
She swallowed it one day;
And now she's taking cascarets
To pass the time away.
But as the time went on and on
The watch refused to pass;
So if you want to know the time
Just look up Mary's ass.
67
RING--DANG-DOO
Anonymous
Oh, Ring-dang-doo! Pray what is that,
So soft and warm like a pussy-cat,
So warm and round, and split in two?
She said it was her Ring-dang-doo.
She took me down into her cellar,
She said I was a damn fine feller,
She fed me wine, and whiskey too,
And let me play with her Ring-dang-doo
"You God-damned fool," her mother said,
"You've gone and broken your maidenhead;
So pack your trunk, and suit-case too,
And go to hell with your Ring-dang-doo."
She went down town, became a whore,
Hung up a sign outside her door:
"One dollar down or less, will do,
To take a crack at my Ring-dang-doo."
They came by twos, they came by fours,
Until at last they came in scores;
But she was glad when they were through,
For they had ruined her Ring-dang-doo.
And now she lies beneath the sod;
Her soul, they say, is gone to God;
But down in Hell, when Satan's blue,
He takes a whirl at her Ring-dang-doo.
68
AN ERROR
E. P. MATHER
Lay she naked in the sea
All the salt would sweetened be.
Showed she in the sunset West
Eastward-praying Christian even
Would look back and think it best
So to gaze and lose his heaven.
I saw her gleaming in the night,
"O Night," I cried in agitation,
"What is this phantom of delight?
Is it a tender ghost which haunts me,
Or a heated virgin wants me
For the joys of copulation?"
As in answer to this riddle,
She put down her hands and sighed,
Clasped the blossom of her middle
With her fingers, and replied:
"Fairest teeth need daily scraping
With an aromatic twig;
Chastest parts will sigh for raping
With a something bold and big.
Massulmen, has this not wrung you?
Is there not a zebb among you?"
Here I felt him crack his joint
While the vehemence which swelled him
Lifted up the clothes which held him
To a noticeable point.
So I let him out, but she
Started back in terror:
"I said twigs, and here's a tree.
Is there not some error?"
69
CAROLINA: A PARODY
Anonymous
Nothing could be finer
Than to climb your Carolina,
In the morning.
Then's the time that she is best,
When she's had a little rest,
At dawning.
Then there's no one knocking
At the old front door,
Or rattling on the door-knob—
O Gawd, it used to make me sore.
You lie right beside her,
And climb right astride 'er,
In the morning.
Her little buttercup starts
To cuddle up and pucker up,
At dawning.
Night-time is the right time
Some people say;
But I will take the morning
Or I'll play a matinee—
For nothing could be sweeter
Than to have a little cheater,
In the morning.
70
A SPORT MODEL TO A TRUCK
Anonymous
I seat myself to write you
Just a wee short letter, Bess,
To inform you that my speeding
Days are over now, I guess;
For I'm laid up in the junk-pile
Wih others of my kind,
While sturdy-going trucks like you
Have left me far behind.
Now, the reason that I'm laid-up
In the shop for quite a spell,
Is a simply little story
That, in rhyme, I'll try to tell.
I know you're sympathetic
And will listen like a friend,
For the story's quite pathetic,
With a real untimely end.
I was stepping out last evening,
Making sixty miles an hour,
For my batteries were charged,
And I had pep and power:
But there never was a pleasure
That trouble couldn't spoil,
And I got a double measure
When I started pumping oil.
So I went to see the doctor man—
I mean to the garage—
And he said, "Your piston's leaking,
And your battery's overcharged,
And your tappets need adjusting,
And your sliding valve won't slip;
Your drain-cock's swelled to bursting,
And your nuts have lost their grip."
71
"Your vacuum tank is out of juice,
It won't work with a choke;
And your front nuts all are loose—
Your springs are bent and broke,
Your steering gear is out of line,
Your hot-spot's mighty cold,
The oil is running out behind—
You've simply lost control."
*
SALLY: PARODY
Anonymous
I don't know what's become of Sally—
It was no fault of mine;
I wonder what's become of Sally—
I put her in the hay,
And then I went away.
Of course I must admit,
I rode her quite a bit,
But, from what I know now,
Someone else was doin' it.
I wonder what's become of Sally,
That old mare of mine.
72
OUT AT WAIKIKI
DON BLANDING
Out at Waikiki by the sobbing sea,
In a district rather sporty,
In a banyan's shade lived a virgin maid
Who was just this side of forty.
She did not go to a movie show,
For she had no one to take her;
And she did not stray from the narrow way,
Because nobody tried to make her.
But I wish to state that just this date
She was Waikiki's one virgin,
Though some were sure that the girl was pure
Because she'd had no urgin'.
But a dirty cat in a nearby flat,
Whose morals were quite elastic,
Laid a low-lived plan to ruin Anne,
With methods sly but drastic.
She stopped one day in a casual way
To ask about Anne's persian,
Then said, "Oh, look at this lovely book,
It's a new, uncensored version,
Of Vermilion Sin by Helliner Grynn,
I'm sure you'll find it stirring."
With a knowing look she left the book,
Despite Anne's chaste demurring.
In a wicker chair, all unaware
Of her neighbor's wicked scheming,
Anne took a look through the borrowed book,
And it set her wildly dreaming.
73
Each gilded sin that Helliner Grynn
Described with skill uncanny,
Stirred a strange unrest in the withered breast.
Of simple virgin Anne.
With a vision clear she saw how dear
Was the virtue that she'd been shielding,
And she longed for the charms of a lover's arms,
And the joys of weakly yielding.
In wild despair she tore her hair
Then cried to the stars above her:
"I'll end my state of a celibate,
I'll get me a hard-boiled lover."
With a frantic wail she cleared the rail
Of the porch with a leap gazellish,
And headed straight for her neighbor's gate
And the light in her eyes was hellish.
"I'll steal her rouge and her high-heel shoes—
The ones she wears on Mondays—
And I think I'll get her pink georgette
And silk embroidered 'undies'. "
Before her glass this aged lass
Sat down—it was really tragic—
And you would have cried as the virgin tried
To work a vampire's magic.
It was half-past ten when she left her den,
Feeling wild and very flighty,
As she boldly strode down Kalia Road
In her filmy chiffon nightie.
Underneath a tree at Waikiki
Was a sailor drinking madly,
It was rotten gin and it scorched his chin,
But he needed cheering badly.
74
For he was blue, and gin he knew,
Would cheer his disposition.
Then he raised his eyes and to his surprise
Saw a lovely apparition.
"My gob, my gob," he heard her sob,
"My hero, my adorer."
It was Annie there, and her frenzied stare
Quite startled the man before her.
He jumped to his feet for a quick retreat,
But Anne, with a gesture quicker
Than a bullet's hum, seized the bottle of rum
And drank the remaining liquor.
"Well, strike me pink," said the gob, "I think
This jane is drunk or dippy.
But she looks all there, and I don't care
If her figure is too hippy.
So he caught the maid as she dizzily swayed
To his arms, and he quickly kissed her.
And he heard her moan like a saxaphone,
As the first kiss raised a blister.
Oh, I can't write of that hectic night,
My description would be pallid.
And anyway, the things I'd say
Don't belong in a proper ballad.
But the papers state that next morning late
On a beach by the broad Pacific,
They found Anne dead. But the papers said
That her smile was beatific.
75
MADAME DU BARRY
DON BLANDING
Madame Du Barry
Was a lively old fairy
Who sold herself to a king;
She got jewels and riches
While other poor bitches
Stayed pure and got never a thing.
A LITTLE SONG
Anonymous
Listen to me and my little song,
And I'll tell you how a guy went wrong.
I used to live with aunty who was old and wealthy.
She had a servant girl who was fat and healthy.
I tried my best to get 'er to lay the leg,
Or take her in the woodshed on my peg:
No matter how I tried I didn't seem to figure,
So I think to this day, she was a gold-digger.
I sneaked 'round the back one night goin' to bed,
And caught her with her head in a barrel gettin' bread;
A chance like that, of course, I couldn't pass,
So, I histed up her skirts, and oosed it in her ass.
To think of worse luck; My God! I know I can't;
For, when she turned around, Great guns, it was my aunt!
76
SAM McCALL'S SONG
JIM TULLY
My name is Sam McCall
And I come from Donegal,
And I have no balls at all,
Balls at all.
Oh, my name is Sam McCall—Sam McCall—
And I'm the greatest stud that ever had a stall,
Had a stall.
Oh, I kicked the boards all out
When the women came about;
Now, I have no balls at all,
Balls at all.
There can be no room for balls
When your penis fills the stalls,
Fills the stalls.
Oh, the girlies laugh and sing
At the joy I always bring,
Damn it all,
Damn it all,
Damn it all.
Oh, when I was just a lad,
My mother and my dad
Had put me in a tent to hide it all,
Hide it all.
For they knew when girls discover
A big penis on a lover,
It would be the last of any lad from Donegal,
Donegal.
77
And when Barnum came to Dublin,
He my father kept a-troublin'
To make a circus freak of Sam McGall,
Sam McCall.
For he knew that all the women
With passion would be swimmin'
To get a private look at Sam McCall,
Sam McCall.
THE YOUNGEST
Anonymous
She lay stark naked
Between the sheets,
So nice and fat and chubby;
And I myself beside her lay,
My hand upon her bubby.
I kissed her lips in crazy glee,
And 'neath her chin did chuck her:
Our thighs did intermingle,
And I began to fuck her.
"Pull out," she cried, "pull out! pull out,
Or I'll get me into trouble."
I did, and on her snow-white breast
That stream did squirt and bubble.
I looked into her frightened face
And, with a smile of mirth,
I said, "I guess that is the youngest child
That you have ever nursed."
She scooped it up with one fair hand,
And, with a glad ha ha,
She threw the load into my face
And said, "Child, go kiss your pa!"
78
YOUR RADIATORS BURSTED
Anonymous
Your radiator's bursted,
And your dust-pan's on the bum;
Your gearshift's dry and rusted,
And you cannot go or come.
Your four-wheel brakes have lost their grip
As anyone can tell—
Your clutch is loose and bound to slip;
Your rear-end's shot to hell.
Your sparkplugs fail to get the juice,
Your lights are on the bum.
Your rear-wheel lugs are mighty loose,
You've sure been going some.
Your windshield's broke, your starter's stuck,
The rear-end lights won't burn;
In fact, old top, you're out of luck
And hardly worth a durn.
I'll get the parts I know you need:
Some monkey glands and such,
But you must cut down on your speed,
And not go out so much;
For your rambling days, old top,
Are over now, and past.
It's not because you ran the race,
It's 'cause you ran too fast!
79
TEASE
D. H. LAWRENCE
I will give you all my keys,
You shall be my chatelaine,
You shall enter as you please,
As you please shall go again.
When I hear you jingling through
All the chambers of my soul,
How I sit and laugh at you
In your vain housekeeping role.
Jealous of the smallest cover,
Angry at the simplest good;
Well, you anxious, inquisitive lover,
Are you pleased with what's in store?
You have fingered all my treasures,
Have you not, most curiously,
Handled all my tools and measures
And masculine machinery?
Over every single beauty
You have had your little rapture;
You have slain, as was your duty,
Every sin-mouse you could capture.
Still you are not satisfied,
Still you tremble faint reproach;
Challenge me I keep aside
Secrets that you may not broach.
Maybe yes, and maybe no,
Maybe there are secret places,
Altars barbarous below,
Elsewhere halls of high disgraces.
80
Maybe yes, and maybe no,
You may have it as you please,
Since I choose to keep you so,
Suppliant on your curious knees.
IN MOBILE
Anonymous
Oh, the men they wash the dishes in Mobile,
Oh, the men they wash the dishes in Mobile,
Oh, the men they wash the dishes
And they dry them on their britches,
Oh, the dirty sons-of-bitches in Mobile!
The cows they all are dead in Mobile,
The cows they all are dead in Mobile,
The cows they all are dead
So they milk the bulls instead,
Because babies must be fed in Mobile!
Oh, they teach the babies tricks in Mobile,
Oh, they teach the babies tricks in Mobile,
Oh, they teach the babiets tricks
And by the time that they are six,
They suck their fathers' pricks in Mobile!
Oh, the eagles they fly high, in Mobile,
Oh, the eagles they fly high, in Mobile,
Oh, the eagles they fly high
And from way up in the sky,
They shit squarely in your eye, in Mobile!
81
IVY AND I AND GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR
Anonymous
The farmer was a deacon,
His wife was long of jaw
And their house was sad and lonely
As the first amoeba was.
The farmer worked me weary,
The woman starved me thin;
Alone their daugher loved me
And I loved her alone.
Satan came to tempt us
Behind grandfather's chair.
Still as a ghost was the empty house,
Warm in the summer night,
Echoing ancestors' footsteps,
Creaking at sudden winds—
The family was at revival
And she and I at home.
There was the open bible
For those who would to read,
A remarkable book,
But my fingers shook
In that cosy nook,
For the wisdom of the ancients
We must always learn anew.
I searched:
I know that my Redeemer liveth,
Praise ye the Lord, cry they;
He certainly rates some credit
For keeping them all away.
Tomorrow's chores are lighter;
Tomorrow's sun will set,
And hell will fire brighter
When the devil drags his net.
For
In it he will find
Her and me
Beside grandfather's chair
Once again.
She smiles and never tells
And the church will ring its bells
Every Sunday,
And the church will toll its knells
For the fools who fear its spells
Before they ever knew
Joy is life.
It's flames of hell that dance
And the lights of hell that shine
And the bells of hell that peal
For the blood of hell is wine!
Yes
Upon grandfather's chair
She was mine.
83
POOR OLD DICK
Anonymous
At the close of our existence,
When we've climbed life's golden stairs
And the chilly winds of Autumn
Rudely toss our silvery hairs;
When we feel our manhood ebbing,
And we're up to life's last ditch,
And we find our faithful Peter
Sleeping soundly at the switch;
God Almighty! ain't it awful!
Don't it make you deathly sick,
When the painful fact confronts you
That you've got a lifeless dick?
Ain't it sad for us to know
That when we take him on the street,
That he ne'er again will wrestle
That he ne'er again will bristle
With the pussies that we meet?
On a wet and windy day,
When some maiden shows her stocking
In that naughty, funny way?
Oh, my poor old loyal kingpin,
How my heart goes out to you.
For I cannot but remember
All the stunts you used to do.
How I charmed the maids and maidens,
And the dashing widows too,
How you had the whole push wishing
For just a little bit of you.
84
Don't you think that I've forgotten,
When each dear girl you tried,
I could never make you quit her 'til
She cried, "I'm satisfied."
Think you then that I'll forget you,
Just because you are so dead,
And because when I command you,
You cannot raise your head?
No indeed, my valiant comrade,
Naught shall rob you of your fame!
Henceforth you'll be my pisser,
And I'll love you just the same.
A TOAST
Anonymous
A social glass
And a social lass
Go very well together.
But a social lass
With a social ass
I think a damn sight better.
Here's to the glass,
And the lass, and the ass,
May we meet in all kinds of weather;
We'll drink from the glass,
And feel of the ass,
And make the lass feel better.
85
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBO
Anonymous
In fourteen hundred and ninety-two,
A dago from I-taly
Walked the streets of Sunny Spain
A-shouting, "Hot tamalie!"
He knew the world was round-O—
His balls hung to the ground-O—
That Dago-bastard-with-the-seven-year-itch,
That syphillitic son-of-o-bitch
Was Christopher Columbo.
Columbo went unto the Queen
And asked for ships and cargo,
And said, "I'm a dirty son-of-a-bitch
If I don't bring back Chicago.
Chorus:
Columbo paced upon the deck,
He knew it was his duty
He laid his wang into his hand
And said, "ain't that a beauty."
Chorus:
A little girl walked up the deck
And peeked in through the keyhole,
He knocked her down upon her brown
And shoved it in her peehole.
Chorus:
She sprang aloft, her pants fell off,
The villain still pursued her;
The white of an egg ran down her leg,
The son-of-a-bitch had screwed her.
Chorus:
86
Each sailor on Columbo's ship
Had each his private knothole,
But Columbo was a superman
And he used a padded porthole.
Chorus:
Columbo had a cabin boy,
He loved him like a brother;
And every night they went to bed
And laid upon each other.
Chorus:
For forty days and forty nights
They sailed in search of booty;
They spied a whore upon the shore—
My God, she was a beauty.
Chorus:
All the men jumped overboard,
A-shedding coats and collars;—
In fifteen minutes, by the clock,
She made ten thousand dollars.
Chorus:
Those were the days of no clap cure;
The doctors were not many—
The only doc' that he could find
Was a son-of-a-bitch named Benny.
Chorus:
Columbo strode up to the doc',
His smile serene and placid;—
The God-damned doc' burned off his cock
With hydrochloric acid.
Chorus:
87
WHEN I WAS YOUNG
Anonymous
When I was young and foolish
I used to take delight
To go to balls and dances,
And stay out late at night.
'Twas at a ball I met him,
He asked me for a dance.
I knowed he was a sailor
By the buttons on his pants.
His shoes were neatly polished,
His hair was neatly combed,
And when the dance was over
He asked to see me home.
As we walked home together
I heard the people say,
"There goes another girlie
That's being led astray."
'Twas on my father's doorstep
That I was led astray,
'Twas in my mother's bedroom
That I was forced to lay.
He laid me down so gently—
He raised my dresses high;
He said, "Now, Maggie darling,
Take it now, or die."
"Here is a half-a-dollar
For the damage I have done,
For soon you will have children,
A daughter or a son."
88
"If it is a daughter,
Take her on you knee;
But if it's a son, then
Send him out to sea."
"I hope, next time I see you,
That you'll remember me,
And thank God for the blessing
That I have brought to thee."
MARY'S LITTLE LAMB
Anonymous
Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.
It followed her to the barn one day
For eggs she was to hunt;
It stuck its nose beneath her clothes
To get a whiff of cunt.
Now, Mary was a naughty girl
And didn't give a damn;
She let him have another whiff
And killed the god-damned lamb.
89
ABALONE SONG
GEORGE STERLING
In Carmel Bay the people say,
We feed the Lazaroni
On caramels and cockle-shells,
And hunks of abalone.
O some throw rice, and some throw dice
And some throw cascaroni,
But Eve, by hell, will throw a spell
Around the abalone.
O, some folks boast of quail on toast
Because they think it's tony,
But my tomcat gets nice and fat
On hunks of abalone.
He hides in caves beneath the waves,
His ancient patrimony;
Race suicide will ne'er betide
The fertile abalone.
I telegraphed my better half
By Morse, or by Marconi;
But when in need of greater speed
I send an abalone.
O, some think that the Lord is fat,
And some that he is bony;
But as for me I think that he
Is like an abalone.
90
THE JOLLY TINKER
Anonymous
There was a jolly tinker
And he came from Dungaree;
With a half a yard of fungus
Hanging down below his knee.
Oh, his long, long dillywhacker,
Over-grown kidney-cracker,
Looking for a scrimmage
Around the belly whang.
The landlady's daughter
Coming from the ball,
Saw the jolly tinker
Lashing piss against the wall.
Oh, his long, long dillywhacker,
Over-grown kidney-cracker,
Looking for a scrimmage
Around the belly whang.
O tinker! O tinker!
I'm in love with you,
O tinker! O tinker!
Will a half a dollar do?
For your long, long dillywhacker,
Over-grown kidney-cracker,
Looking for a scrimmage
Around the belly whang.
Oh, he screwed her in the parlor,
He fucked her in the hall,
And the servant said, "By Jesus,
He'll be cramming on us all."
91
With his long, long dillywhacker,
Over-grown kidney-cracker,
Looking for a scrimmage
Around the belly whang.
"O daughter! O daughter!
You were a silly fool
To get busy with a man
With a tool like a mule."
Oh, his long, long dillywhacker,
Over-grown kidney-cracker,
Looking for a scrimmage
Around the belly whang.
"O mother! O mother!
I thought I was able,
But he split me up the belly,
From the cunt up to the navel."
With his long, long dillywhacker,
Over-grown kidney-cracker,
Looking for a scrimmage
Around the belly whang.
CHANSON ANTIQUE
Anonymous
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying;
And the penis which is tiff today
Tomorrow will be dying.
92
THE ENGINEER'S SONG
Anonymous
The runaway engine came down the track,
And she blew, she blew;
The runaway engine came down the track,
And she blew, she blew;
The runaway engine came down the track,
With her lever pushed up and her throttle pushed back,
And she blew, blew, blew,
The son-of-a-bitch, she blew.
The flagman he stood way out in the grass—
The staff of the flag ran up his ass.
Chorus:
The switchman he stood at the God-damned switch
And ditched the God-damned son-of-a-bitch.
Chorus:
The conductor he looked and he saw the wreck
And shit flew up the back of his neck.
Chorus:
The fireman he was shoveling coal—
The shovel handle ran up his asshole.
Chorus:
The engineer he stood at the throttle
Trying to piss in the neck of a bottle.
Chorus:
93
The porter stood at the stateroom door
Looking up the leg of a whore.
Chorus:
A big fat wench was riding the front
And a red-hot coal flew up her cunt.
Chorus:
JOCK MCLAREN'S BIRDIE
Anonymous
Jock McLaren was a Hielan' mon:
He hailed from Brook Murray-
Be bought him a kilt o' the real McLaren
That na mair than covered his birdie.
The kilt with the weather began to shrink,
Till it scarcely reached his heardie.
Then Jock was shocked one day to find
That na mair it covered his birdie.
To buy a new ane cost mony baubers,
And Jock couldna wear his god one;
And to cut a piece off his birdie's head
Clearly was out of the question.
So he thot and he thot,
And he mair than thot,
'Til a thot thru his head came a-fartin'
He painted he tip of his birdie's head,
And ye na could tell it from the tartin.
94
THE NEW MAUD MULLER
Anonymous
Maud Muller on a Summer's day
Raked the meadows sweet with hay,
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
She little dreamed that the man from town
Would get onto the charms beneath her gown—
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Stroking his horse's chestnut mane.
The Judge had been up the previous night
At a game of draw that was out of sight.
His friends filled him up with villainous budge,
And he left the game a busted Judge.
He did not despond or get a bit blue,
For the following week his salary was due;
But his nut was swelled and his tongue was thick,
And his brains were heated and so was his prick.
For a feverish jag, with its other arts,
Heats up the prick like other parts.
He dreamed of tail all along the lane,
But there was no tail, so he stroked the mane.
And he saw Maud Muller standing there
With her little tin cup and ank
