After the Raid
A raid on the National Dutch Room cabaret in Minneapolis recently, in which two hundred fur-clad women and velvet-pocketed escorts were piled into patrol wagons amid a crashing of hip-pocket glassware, inspired Mr. McKillips to write this poetic story.
By BUDD L. McKILLIPS
Listen, dearie, stop your cryin’
’Cause they’ve locked you in a cell;
Don’t make noises like you’re dyin’;
Oh, I know it’s simply hell.
Cryin’, dear, won’t move the jailer,
Won’t make him unlock the door;
Use some rouge, you’re lookin’ paler;
I’ve been in these raids before.
Dozen times, I guess, they nailed me
When they used to have a line;
Ward boss always came and bailed me—
Sometimes even paid my fine.
Never mind that “Press” sob-sister,
Dry your eyes and play the game—
Ain’t no story—beat it, Mister;
Good Lord, dear, don’t give your name.
Don’t tell him a damn thing, honey;
Hush now, dear, I know your tale;
Just like me you needed money
And stepped out to grab the kale.
Lost your job, maybe slack season;
Didn’t have the price to eat—
Maybe not, but that’s the reason
Most girls start to hit the street.
Homeless, hungry, maybe freezin’,
Soon you found the business paid,
And there wasn’t no slack season
Or no lay-offs in our trade.
Conscience hurt when long-faced preachers
Said as how you’d go to hell?
Dear, the sons of those same teachers
Came to buy the thing you sell.
Just forget those sal’ried prayers
When they tell you all those things,
Tell them that the low-wage payers
Don’t help grow no angel wings.
Hush, now, dearie, come on, stop ’er,
Cut the weeps and be a sport,
Fix your hair, here comes a copper
For to take us into court.
See the judge, bet he’s been stayin’
Out all night—he’s got the jerks;
We’re up now—what’s that he’s sayin’?
Holy Gee, we got the works!
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