Pitched on his head and pumped full of lead Lay Dangerous Dan McGrew, While the man from the creeks, lay crushed to the breast Of the Lady that was known as Lou.
These are the simple facts of the case And I guess I ought to know They said that the stranger was crazed with hooch And I’m not denying it’s so.
I’m not so wise as there lawyer guys But strictly between us two The woman that kissed him and pinched his poke Was the Lady, that was known as Lou.
While the wintry wind is blowing, and it’s hailing and it’s snowing; Folks all wonder how I manage to keep warm. If they only knew the reason why I always keep in season, At my door, an endless line would straightway form, Comes the Summer, hot and torrid, I don’t swear it’s blinkin’ horrid, It’s a time of joy and comfort, I declare, For in my lowly cellar is the coziest rathskellar, That’s my little home-made bar beneath the stair.
Thus I scorn official blighters who’d regenerate booze fighters, By arresting them and placing them in jail; Virtue can’t be legislated into man, degenerated, Ancient rights can’t be usurped—they will prevail, So I’m happy, hail and hearty and sometimes put on a party Of my own without a solitary care, Where I spend such blissful hours, in the fairest of all bowers, In my little home-made bar beneath the stair.
_When the Whiz Bang first made its debut into the world in 1919, we published the poem, “I Don’t.” Now steps up a contributor and offers an answer to it. Both of them have punch and pep, so we are offering these twin sisters of poetic mirth for your approval herewith.—The Editor._
My mama told me not to smoke— I Don’t. Nor listen to a naughty joke— I Don’t. They made it clear I must not wink At handsome men nor even think About intoxicating drink— I Don’t.
To dance and flirt is very wrong— I Don’t. Wild girls chase men, wine and song— I Don’t. I kiss no boys, not even one. I do not know how it is done. You wouldn’t think I’d have much fun— I Don’t.
When a pair of red lips are upturned to your own, With none to gossip about it; Do you pray for endurance and—leave them alone; Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.
When a shy little hand you’re permitted to seize, With a velvety softness about it; Do you think you can drop it, with never a squeeze; Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.