My Girl
My girl was the best of girls,
Her curls were the prettiest of curls.
No girl had lips so sweet,
No girl had such dainty feet.
My girl never told a lie,
Not even to me.
What a shame my girl must die
At the age of three.
Budd’s Bundle of Bunk
BY BUDD L. McKILLIPS
Author of “After the Raid”
This talk of blue laws gets my goat; reformers make me sore. I’d like to take them by the throat and kick them through the door. Time was I used to drink some beer, and maybe sing a song—perhaps I got soused once a year, and didn’t think it wrong.
But now if I desire a drink, some basement I must find, and if I get by with a wink perhaps I may go blind. The beer I drank was harmless stuff, ’twas made of hops and grain; the hootch today is made of snuff, ground glass and paint and rain.
Three weeks ago I took a drink—just one, I took no more; if I had two I really think I’d whipped an army corps. The one I took was bad enough, it stood me on my neck, and then I started to get rough and made the place a wreck. Somebody called three policemen in, they sat upon my brow and kicked me underneath the chin—I’ve got the marks there now. A riot call brought out more troops who battered me with clubs, then locked me in the city coops with ninety other dubs.
My friends chipped in and paid my fine of thirty thousand bucks, the doctors patched my head and spine—that cost five hundred shucks. When I got well my friends I told I’d never drink again, but soon I caught a beastly cold that filled my soul with pain. In olden days I’d hit the hay with half a pint of “Crow” and sure as fate in half a day the cold was sure to go.
This time I hunted up a doc and told him of my ills. His heart was harder than a rock—he gave me quinine pills. I took the pills to the lagoon and fed them to the ducks, then bought a quart of fresh-made “moon” that cost me seven bucks.
That night in bed I took a shot to drive the cold away; I woke up in a vacant lot at 10 a. m. next day.
From now on henceforth I am through with booze that makes me fight with elephants of vivid hue, and sleep in trees at night. No more I’ll sample raisin “skee” that causes much turmoil. I’ll take a chance on T. N. T., bay rum or croton oil.
There’s not much fun in life because there’s naught but woe and pain that’s come from passing foolish laws—I guess I’ll go to Spain.
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