_Tonight your home may shine with lights,_ _And ring with merry songs,_ _And you be smiling as though your soul_ _Had done no deathly wrong._ _Your hands so fair, none would think_ _Had penned these words of pain,_ _Your skin so white, would God, your heart,_ _Were half so free from stain._
_In addition to this noted classic, Whiz Bang will reproduce “Down In the Lehigh Valley,” which is well known by name among Smokehouse fans. And, in parting, folks, don’t forget that the Winter Annual will contain the greatest assortment of Smokehouse poetry ever put into print. Send your dollar in before you are too late._
_This poem was written by Arthur Winter on the wall of the Federal Prison at McNeil Island, Washington, in September, 1909, and later memorized by another prisoner and forwarded to the Whiz Bang upon his release. We offer it to you for what you think it is worth._
Our prayer has gone up through the ages To a God whom they say gave us souls; But the fear of anger still rages, The thunder of punishment rolls.
We are sheep that are driven to slaughter; We are dogs that are whelped in the street; We are useless as poisonous water; We are only for punishment meet.
So hear ye the prayers from the prison, Where fever and famine are rife; Where never one soul has arisen, Where myriads go down in the strife.
Where the black wing of death scarcely hovers, Lest its jesters should make him unclean; And the soft fleecy clouds hurry over, To shut out God’s sun from the scene.
Where the light of God’s orb would be stricken, With shame as it passed in the sky, To look in the cells where we sicken, To fall in the sod where we die.
If thou, God, omnipotent being, Can pierce the prison’s pale gloom; And growest not sick of the seeing, This charnel, this foul-reeking tomb?
If Thy hand stretch not forth in its anger, To smite this damn den of despair, Whose evil is rampant, and languor Is lord of the poisonous lair.
Then God, take Ye back your creation, And plunge it in infinite fire, Your wrath is eternal damnation, But man’s is more lasting dire.
A few years back, in my palmy days, when the boxing game was grand, I tipped the scales at a hundred and ten; had a punch in either hand; But I never was a top notch, the reason for which I’ll tell, I was learning a trade in a boiler shop; I worked, and worked like everything; I was down at the gym three times a week, tore off six rounds each night, ’Till I found myself in tiptop shape and ready for the fight. I was matched to box “The Sunflower Kid,” the colored bantam champ; I knew he was good so I trained down fine, and stuck to my training camp. For I never drank nor smoked then, boys, I prided my health and strength, Could box like Gibbons and hit like Jack, had a good left jab for its length.