The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting)
Edwin Alfred Watrous




Edwin Alfred Watrous

The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting) / Camouflage in Word Painting




Dedicated to


THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


CIVILIZATION'S CRUSADER

		To Thee, My Native Land, America!
		My heart with pride is filled: my lips exult
		Because Thou art my Home—my Fatherland.
		Beneath the Constellation of the States,
		Set in the firmament of fadeless blue,
		I bare my head and hail the Stars and Stripes,
		Proud Emblem of our Unity and Might.
		My Country calls! I give what I possess,—
		All! All I say! and giving thus, regret
		That my poor contribution to thy needs,
		In hours of peril when dark war-clouds loom,
		Is such a paltry thing
		When measured by the debt of gratitude
		I owe for Liberty.
		All that I am and have belongs to Thee.
		Upon thy Altar Fires,
		Where Freedom glows and glorifies Mankind,
		I consecrate
		My flood-tide strength, my substance—life itself!
		And rate not this as sacrifice
		That gives me pleasure to repay
		In this small way
		Thy boon and bounty, priceless Liberty.




PROEM


		If you can find, within, a single line
		To give you pleasure, then the pleasure's mine;
		But if you fail and whine, or josh like Billings,
		You might (I say you might!) get back your shillings.
		But better yet! Bestow this Book of Verses
		On some friend-foe you love with hate and curses,
		And your revenge will be attained thereafter
		For, when he reads it, he will die with laughter.
		And, Cheerful Reader, if this work contains
		A soporific for your bulging brains
		So that you'll rave about it to your neighbors,
		I'll feel repaid for all rebuffs and labors.
		Though "Wisdom sometimes borrows, sometimes lends,"
		You'll borrow trouble lending this to friends;
		But earn my thanks if, when you've praised or shown it,
		You'll sit upon the lid and never loan it:
		For ev'ry copy sold, thru friends or slapbacks,
		Just puts Mo'lasses on my buckwheat flapjacks.
		And, Critic Friend, who halts Ambition's flight
		And ties the can to Aspiration's kite,
		Pray recollect that when you plied the pen
		And had some stuff accepted now and then,
		Your tales, O! Henry, did not prove inviting
		Or else you'd be no Cynic but still writing.




BEHOLD A MAN!


		There stands a Man! unyielding and defiant,
		A master Leader, bold and self-reliant.
		He seeks no conquest but his lance is set
		Against the ruthless Despot's parapet.
		Alert and conscious of his strength, his thrust
		Is sure and timely, for his cause is just.
		Invincible, he rallies to his cause
		Those who love Justice and respect the laws.
		To skulking traitors and to spying foes
		He shows no mercy, but his heart o'erflows
		For those oppressed, who live, nay! who exist
		Where arrogance and tyranny persist:
		But, tho distressed by all this human grief,
		He weeps not idly, but compels relief:
		And those he serves by act or speech or pen,
		One Hundred Million freemen, shout, Amen!
		"Safe for Democracy the world must be,
		And all its bondaged peoples shall be free!"
		So spake the Man: America thus voiced
		Its ultimatum, and the Earth rejoiced!
		Intensely human, cast from mortal clay
		In Nature's mould, one epoch-making day,
		Behold a Man! he seems a higher sort,
		Refined with purest gold from God's Retort
		And filled with skill and wisdom, Heaven-sent:
		God bless and keep our peerless President!




THE JULOGY


		To those who never heard my Songs before,
		And those who have, and want to nevermore,
		This Rhapsody, with all its pithy phrases,
		Has passed the Censors with the highest praises.
		Released by favor of the Board's caprice,
		It takes its proper place—a masterpiece!
		Soft pedal, please! The Knockers are outclassed,
		And Genius finds its recompense at last!
		Whene'er I read about this war-time pelf
		It makes me sick: I can't contain myself!
		The profits on the die-stuffs sent to France
		Make Croesus' wealth a trifling circumstance;
		And what the Farmers get for mules and wheat
		Makes fortunes hitherto quite obsolete.
		In by-gone days the Bards were praised and pensioned
		Who now are at the Front—and rarely mentioned:
		And all these hardships they endure while men
		Who write big checks, thus scandalize the pen.
		The Writers should throw off their yokes and collars
		And drill their brains to cultivate the dollars.
		The talents they possess are strictly mental
		And can't be utilized for food and rental.
		Their thoughts are capital, but who'll invest
		In Sonnet Stock without some interest?
		Or who'd take stock in Poem Plants? Alack!
		He who invests expects the yellowback.
		But here I'm talking money: what a joke
		For one to thus discourse who's always broke!
		Since "money talks" we'll suffer it to speak,—
		"I am the thing that countless millions seek;
		Greed's inspiration, Evil's very root,
		The Nemesis of those in my pursuit.
		Kings pay me homage, pawn their crowns to me
		And, deathless, I enslave their progeny.
		Men famed for noble deeds, who court my smile,
		Ofttimes surrender probity to guile:
		Who, needy, follows my uncertain path,
		I may elude and favor him who hath,—
		For I have wings, and lightning speeds my flight,—
		Wealthy to-day, a pauper overnight!
		The Ticker tells the tale from day to day:
		Brings joy to some, to others dire dismay."

		This Work is copyrighted just to show
		To what low depths the Pirate Press will go.
		They borrow thunder from the Vulcan forge,
		Then draw the fire and put the smut on George.
		Each song or verse, it seems to me, should be
		Distinguished by originality
		If nothing else (the matter may be sloppy,—
		But that's no matter if there's ample copy)
		So that the Author's face could be unmasked
		And recognized without a question asked;
		Or, so identify Calliope
		By strident notes of high-toned quality;
		Or thus detect some Poet's "fist" and style
		By I. O. U.'s unhonored yet awhile.
		The Pirates thus would cease perforce their trade,
		And Bacon would not be confused with Ade.
		In all my songs I do the work myself,
		And draw no inspiration from the Shelf.
		Perhaps my lines would be more read, if cribbed,
		But George and I, you know, have never fibbed,
		And what is more, I think my lines are sweeter
		Than those of Dante, with infernal meter;
		And more heroic, and not half so sad
		As Homer's couplets in the Illiad;
		And far more musical and much prettier
		Than those by Tennyson or by Whittier.
		Each bar is known to me, its licensee,
		And ev'ry note has had my scrutiny:
		I also watch my pauses, moods and tenses,
		And have no words with fair amanuenses.
		If you could see my workshop (do not ask it!)
		You'd find more "carbons" in my paper-basket,
		More rough, unpolished diamonds there immured
		Than you, Dear Reader, ever have endured.
		I have no Jewish blood, not e'en a strain:
		That's what I lack! If ever born again
		I'd requisition Hebrew sire and dam,
		Something akin, methinks, to Abraham,
		And take these "jewels," doomed unseen to flash,
		Gloss o'er their flaws, and turn them into cash.
		Here's where I doff my bonnet to the Jew!
		Tho' sore oppressed they're still the Chosen Few:
		A few in numbers but a mighty host
		When reckoned by the things that count the most,—
		I mean achievements, won by toilsome stages
		In spite of persecutions thru the Ages.

		I see these Davids watching o'er their flocks
		In Palestine. (To-day they watch their stocks
		And clip the coupons from their bonds, you see,
		Just as they sheared the lambs in Galilee.)
		There milk and honey in abundance vied
		To keep the Simple Simons satisfied;
		But here to luxuries the Josephs cling,
		And milk the honey from most everything.
		Time was when you were treated with disdain
		But now the tune is quite a changed refrain,
		And Gentiles everywhere take special pains
		To pay respectful tribute to your brains!
		Behold your ancient hills and rugged rocks;
		Your fruitful valleys with their golden shocks
		Of Grain that, grouped around the stately dates,
		Seem to defy the threshing that awaits!
		Here olives ripen 'neath the summer skies
		And yield rich oil,—first Standard Oil supplies;
		'Twas here the mighty Samson filled with awe
		The Philistines and flayed them with his jaw;
		(No man before, or since, thus courted fame,
		For woman holds these records in her name.)
		And here wise Solomon refused the vote
		In statecraft matters to the Petticoat;
		But when the Referendum was installed
		The wise old King's objection was Recalled.
		And then there's David caring for his sheep,
		And big Goliath (rocking him to sleep).
		There Japheth, Shem and Ham are; Ham tabooed
		By Moses in his Treatises on Food;
		And Jehu with his pair of chestnut colts
		Trotting the highway down like thunderbolts.
		If Jehu reined to-day he'd swap his stable
		For high-power Auto, with a foreign label,
		And hold the record for the Shore Road trip
		From Tyre to Sidon at a lightning clip,—
		And make his whiskers, driven by the breeze,
		Look like a storm-tossed frigate on the seas.
		There's Jacob dreaming, seeing more than Esau,
		And giving him the double-cross and hee-haw;
		Obtaining Esau's birthright (Silly Dupe!)
		For three brass spheroids and a bowl of soup.
		He traded for it—didn't have to buy it!
		'Cause Brother Hairy, glutton, wouldn't diet.
		But "chickens come back home to roost," forsooth,
		And Jacob in his dotage learned this truth,
		When Leah's sons, of ordinary clay,
		Put Rachel's Joseph in the consommé.

		As Financiers the palm has been bestowed,
		In panegyric, melody and ode,
		On Jacob's sons. The caravans, that passed
		Thru burning sands, from cities far and vast,
		Into their land that teemed with grain and gold,
		Were richly laden. Thus they bought and sold,
		Exchanging corn and cattle, hides and honey
		For finest silks and linens, gems and money,—
		Until, thru bargain-insight, skill and daring,
		They cornered all the fabrics used for wearing,
		And then proceeded, with discerning lust,
		To hump themselves and form a Camel Trust.
		The Traders who had plied this Cargo Route
		Could never, in their deals, get cash to boot
		From Jacob's sons. Sometimes a fleece or skin,
		Of little size and worth, would be thrown in,
		But shekels—No! And so the nomad Sheik
		In quest of easy picking; Turk and Greek;
		The wily Fellah from the distant Nile
		Whose gaudy gewgaw "gems" reflect his guile;
		The sleepy Peddlers from the Land of Nod,
		Who still shekinah on ancestral sod;
		And all the Wise Men from the Eastern marts
		Who plan their ventures by the Astral charts,
		Plotted and vowed, by Imps and Endor Witches,
		To wrest from Jacobs Brothers all their riches.
		So, working now with Bulls, anon with Bears;
		Rigging the market to advance their wares
		Or to depress the House of Jacobs' shares,
		It looked as if the plotters might make good
		Against the unsuspecting Brotherhood.
		But patiently the Brethren stood their ground,
		Unmindful of the rumors passed around,
		Or baits to tempt Cupidity thrown out,
		That throttle Judgment and put Sense to rout,—
		Until the market, unsupported, broke:
		Then, feigning sleep, they suddenly awoke
		And took possession of the Stock Exchange.
		Like beaten curs or mongrels with the mange
		The Plotters cringed. The Shorts in wild dismay
		To cover ran, but Zounds! they had to pay
		Four prices to the Brethren who controlled
		The entire issue of the short stock sold.
		And thus the Brethren made a tidy sum,
		Keeping their standing in Financialdom.
		Keen businessmen, they sold or bought as well,
		But never showed anxiety to sell.

		So Jacob's Sons became, as was their bent,
		The mighty Merchants of the Orient.
		No goose that ever layed a golden egg
		Would needs have come to one of them to beg
		For life or respite. "Nay! Lay on, Good Goose!
		We'll shield thee and thy gander from abuse!"
		Long-headed and kind-hearted, in such cases
		Their noses were not lopped to spite their faces.
		Too wise they were: they had too good a teacher
		To make the nose too prominent a feature!
		While yet the goose was itching for the nest
		They egged her on and Quack! she did the rest.
		A goose she would appear to give so much
		To those who had—but Life is ever such.
		But Jacob's Sons like Isaac, sturdy Oak,
		Made no complaint but bore their golden yolk,
		And, thrifty men, in many baskets stored
		The golden ovals and increased their hoard.
		And so their nests were feathered, as we know,
		But cautious men they were, who didn't crow.
		And so we see them on the filmy screens,
		Matching their talents 'gainst the Philistines:
		And looking close, we notice that the Brothers
		Have bigger stacks before them than the others.

		And then there's Job, the Paradox, who toils
		To show good humor when beset by boils;
		And Jinxy Jonah, ducked and rudely whaled,
		Because he had no passport when he sailed.
		(Whene'er I see the Ocean Mammal spout
		Methinks it's habit—spewing Jonah out.)
		Delilah's "next"! Tonsorial Adept—
		A cutting up while headstrong Samson slept.
		Shear nonsense—that man's vigor could be sapped
		Because he had a haircut when he napped,
		Or lose his nerve, e'en at the yawning grave,
		Tho' just escaping by the closest shave.
		With Samson's case a multitude compare,
		For men miss greatness ofttimes by a hair.
		'Twas his conceit that made him lose his nerve,
		As long-haired, whiskered men, bereft, deserve.
		The facts are these: that Samson used to wear
		A wig with ringlets, 'cause his head was bare.
		One night, in playful mood, Delilah stole
		Up to his cot and touched the poor old soul
		For his toupee. He woke, chagrined, and fled
		Because his capillary roots were dead.
		What transformation! Thus the Man of Might
		Became a pussyfooter overnight,
		And went to writing verses from that minute
		Finding his strength, not on his head, but in it.

		Of all your rulers, Roman, Jew or Fezzer,
		The first or most pronounced is Nebu'nezzar.
		(Too long this monstrous name has been derided,
		And so the chad, for rhythm, is elided.)
		"Neb" is enough, for short, and apropos
		Of Shadrach, Meshack and Abednego,
		The King waxed wroth because these three live wires
		Passed thru his melting pots and furnace fires
		Without a burn: remarkable endurance!
		Because protected by good Fire Insurance.
		He paid the price for arson ere he died,
		Was kept lit up and rightly classified
		Among the beasts: and now that all is over
		'Tis safe to say he did not live in clover,
		But roamed the pastures, when he lost his pull,
		And grazed himself to death: he was some bull.

		Then next we come to Ruth, the Moabite:
		Her husband Chilion (not her!) one night
		Blew out the gas, and Ruth was thus bereft;
		But Naomi, her Ma-in-Law, was left
		To comfort her: and jolly well she did it!
		For Ruth's great grief soon ceased or else she hid it.
		Then to Naomi's Land the two repaired,
		Their love enhanced by sorrows they had shared.
		And so the elder of the widowed twain
		Set out to find, for Ruth, another swain;
		And all her schemes, 'tis said, succeeded so as
		To marry Ruth to wealthy kinsman Boaz.
		Unselfish? No! She was too old to wed,
		So Ruth agreed to give her board and bed,
		Trusting to Boaz not to spoil her plan
		Who swallowed hook and line like any man.
		The attic room, or one just off the hall,
		Was where Naomi nightly had to crawl;
		And all her meals, unleavened bread and 'taters,
		Were eaten in the kitchen with the waiters,—
		For Boaz, when the honeymoon was spent,
		Tightened his purse-strings—wouldn't spend a cent!
		And Naomi as welcome was, I think,
		As hungry roaches in the kitchen sink.
		This is the only case,—I know no other!
		Where widowed wife abided husband's mother;
		Or, where a woman, in such circumstance,
		Would give her son's relict another chance.

		There's Baal and those exalting Gods of brass;
		And Balaam, Prophet: but we'll let him pass!
		And John the Baptist, man who lost his head
		To fair Salomé, tho she cut him dead.
		There's Absalom the Vain, whose hair was long,
		Who, in the final parting, got in wrong:
		And Pharaoh, with chariots and fighters
		Pursuing Moses and the Israeliters;
		Who, half-seas over, when the King dropped in,
		Punished the latter for his divers sin,
		And rescued on the Red Sea bar his folk,
		Athirst for freedom from the Ptolemy yoke.

		While yet the rushes bent beneath the blast
		Of Red Sea winds, a prodigy was cast.
		(From common mold, perhaps, but 'tis enough
		To know that he was made of proper stuff.)
		And little did the Tempest wot his noise
		Was silence likened to the bawling boy's.
		The Earth breathed on the shape and gave it speech,
		Or something vocally akin, a screech.
		Thus Moses had his coming out—and lo!
		He rushed into the arms of Fairy O
		(Daughter of Pharaoh, the mighty King)
		Who bore him to the Palace 'neath her wing.
		Fed on the Milk of Kindness to begin,
		With Medica Materia thrown in,
		He grew until appointed, by decree,
		To Little Egypt, Princess, the M.D.
		Thus Doctor Moses hung his shingle out,
		And soon his fame was heralded about.
		To doctors since, no fame like his doth cling:
		No Specialist: he doctored everything!
		He analyzed and stopped the human leak;
		(His patience was rewarded, so to speak)
		He charged his people to eschew the swine,
		And made the Ten Commandments seem benign.
		Not only as Physician did he rate,
		But as a Surgeon: he could amputate!
		He cut off Pharaoh in his pursuit
		And, by this operation, gained repute.
		He set his people right and made no bones
		Of driving lepers from the Safety Zones;
		He gave them tablets for their moral healing,
		Knowing their pulses without even feeling.
		His praises now resound from every lip
		Because he saved the Jews from Phar'oh's grippe.
		Still 'long the Nile the pink-winged curlews flock
		Where Moses took his henchmen out of hock;
		The minions of Æolus hurtle on,
		Leaving a trail of foam the waves upon,—
		Stopping anon, where restless driftwood crushes
		The lotus pads that hover near the rushes,
		To chant a requiem and breathe a prayer
		Over the spot that cradled Moses there.
		If modern doctors would obey the rule
		Of common sense prescribed by Moses' School;
		If they would note our pulses and our looks
		Instead of feeling of our pocket-books
		And judging circulation by the latter,
		We'd sometimes know, perhaps, just what's the matter.
		What doctor now would diagnosis make
		And call it simple, old-time belly-ache,
		Charging a trifling fee to cure the pain?
		Ah, no! those days will not return again!
		No more, alas! will green-fruit cramps delight us,
		For colic now is styled appendicitis.
		By leaps and bounds have grown the "trifling fees";
		"Five hundred!" now, succeeds "One Dollar, please!"
		And germs, in league with doctors, have their station
		At vital points to force inoculation,
		So that our Systems pay a pretty price
		For ev'ry nostrum, ev'ry fake device
		Known to the School of Quacks: and so we suffer
		Imposed upon by patentee and duffer.
		O, for a Moses! That's our crying need—
		To cure Physicians of unbridled greed
		And probe, no matter where it hurts, the cause
		Of Doctors' strange immunity from laws.
		O! for an instrument—an act or sermon—
		Of Moses' kind—to cut the germ from German!
		And lead them from the Wilderness of Vice
		Whose hearts were warm but now have turned to ice!

		All these and many more increase the lustre
		Distinguishing this brilliant Jewish cluster.
		And Abraham? We save him for the last,
		Tho first in line, renowned Iconoclast.
		Of all the Israelites, the men of mark,
		Who else compares with this grand Patriarch?
		And who besides, of all the racial roots,
		Developed half the lusty leaves and shoots,
		Strong limbs and branches, virile seed? some trunk!
		The Ark, with all this luggage, would have sunk!
		And so 'twere well the Deluge didst o'erwhelm
		The Earth, ere this, with Noah at the helm,
		Else to preserve the chosen and elite
		Of Israel's line would needs have taxed a fleet.

		I love these ancient tribesmen who illumine
		The Archives of the Past: they were so human!
		Their frailties were but habits of the Race
		Since Father Adam set the human pace
		Hitched up with Eve who, chafing at the bit,
		Did well her part or bit, in spite of it.
		But all their mortal weaknesses were nil
		Compared with virtues that their Records fill;
		And good or bad, or medium or fair,
		No Tribe excelled their morals anywhere.
		They freely gave their tithes, but did it pay
		To advertise their wealth? a give away!
		And so their pockets have been worn and frayed
		By frequent contributions they have made
		To Charity and Church. I hope and pray
		They've saved a little for a rainy day!
		I think they have! for Money talked,—confessed
		That Hebrews were the ones he liked the best,
		Because they never slighted or abused him,
		And always were so careful how they used him.

		And so, O Sons of Abraham, I say
		You've come into your own and come to stay!
		The Promised Land is yours, but what is more,
		The Earth and Seas and Skies with all their store.
		You wandered from Judea, but why care?
		Because your home is here as well as there;
		And we would miss you just as much, I vum,
		As those who wait you in Capernaum;
		For Broadway would despair and sackcloth don
		If you should leave New York for Ascalon.

		No more, thank God! will Infidels profane
		Jerusalem. For centuries the stain
		Of Turkish rule has laid its unclean hand
		Upon the Altars of the Holy Land.
		But now the Prophet's promise is fulfilled,
		And Jews and Gentiles are rejoiced and thrilled
		As Men of Allenby, God's Sword, restore
		The Holy City: yours forevermore.




ENGLAND


		O, Mighty Atlas, thou hast borne the load
		Of hapless peoples smarting from the goad
		Of Tyranny, until thy giant strength
		Seems overtaxed and doomed to break at length.
		Unless thy vim endures with steadfast force;
		Unless thy Ship of State keeps on its course;
		Unless thou gird thy loins and stand astride,
		Colossus-like, the struggles that betide—
		While all the Furies strive, the Turk and Hun,
		To sap thy power—undo what thou hast done—
		Of what avail will all thy efforts be
		Against the tottering walls of Tyranny?
		And to what purpose will have lived thy men
		Who won imposing fame with sword or pen?
		And what, I pray, will all thy thousands slain
		Avail thy Empire if they've died in vain?




PREPAREDNESS


		The Ostrich has his wings, but not for flight;
		He flies on foot when danger is in sight;
		His mate lays eggs upon the desert reaches
		And "sands" them over when the leopard screeches.
		The eggs, thus mounded, fall an easy prey
		To feline foragers who slink that way.
		The Ostrich, thus, guards not his nest: instead
		He hides, in burning sands, his shameless head
		And lets his monoplane and rudder be
		Stripped of their plumage by an enemy.

		Ostriches should Carry
		Their Eggs in a Basket
		And use their Feathers
		For Dusting over the Desert.

		The Squirrel is quite a different kind of fowl:
		He works while others sleep, the sly old owl!
		And stores up food, against the rainy day,
		In secret nooks, from forest thieves away.
		When winter comes, or when besieged by foes,
		Securely housed he feasts and thumbs his nose
		And ridicules starvation: he's immune!
		While others, shiftless, sing another tune.
		The Squirrel, you see, is much misfortune spared
		In times of stress because he is prepared.

		Improvident Nuts
		Should Tear a Leaf
		From the Squirrel's Diary.

		A Heifer on the Railroad Crossing stood
		Chewing Contentment's Cud, as heifers should,—
		When, rushing madly, "late again," there came
		The Noonday Mail. The Heifer was to blame
		For choosing her position, I would say,
		Because the Engine had the Right of Whey.
		The Cow was unprepared! Her switching tail
		Failed signally to flag the Noonday Mail.
		But why keep beefing over milk that's spilled?
		She heeded not the sign and thus was killed.

		Heifers with Unprotected
		Flanks should not Invite
		Rear-guard Actions.

		The Busy Bee improves the shining hours
		And gathers honey from the fragrant flowers.
		When Winter comes, forsaking field and rill,
		He hivernates, but lives in clover still.
		While Famine stalks without, his Home, Sweet Home
		Is stored with tempting food from floor to dome.
		He never lacks, nor has to buy, but cells
		His surplus food gleaned from the flower-fringed dells.
		A thrifty fellow is the Busy Bee
		And fortified against Emergency.

		A Bee's Ears
		Contain no Wax
		And he Saves his Combings
		Against the Baldness of Old Age.

		The Mule is well equipped but lacks the mind;
		His strategy is in his heels, behind.
		If pointed wrong, his practice is not dreaded,
		But kick he will, no matter how he's headed.
		With foresight lacking, hindsight to the fore,
		He'll be just simple Mule forevermore;
		Without the range or sight he'll blaze away
		And thwart his purpose with his brazen bray.
		If well-directed effort were his cult
		No fortress could withstand his catapult.

		A Mule should Conserve
		His Ammunition and
		Not Shoot-off his Mouth.

		The Burglar, have you noticed? never troubles
		To look for petty loot in obscure hovels.
		He packs his kit and steals adown the road
		To Gaspard Moneybags' renowned abode.
		He knows the house-plan ("inside" dope, no doubt)
		And when he's in, old Moneybags is out.
		But Jimmy does not dent the window-sash;
		He enters thru the door and gets the cash.
		Prepared? Well, yes! He knew just where to look,
		For Nora hung the key upon the hook.

		Team-work is
		The Handmaiden
		Of Efficiency.

		It pays to be Prepared, you see, and so
		The Snail in Armored Car goes safe, tho' slow;
		And Alligators in their Coats of Mail
		Withstand assaults where those, defenceless, fail.
		The Tortoise totes his Caripace around
		And dwells in safety where his foes abound;
		While Wasps, with poisoned javelins, defend
		Successfully their offspring to the end.
		A Sheep with ramparts has no thought of fear,
		But guards his buttress when his foes appear,
		And any Skunk can frighten and harass
		An Army with Asphyxiating Gas.




THE FUGITIVE KISS


		How I loved her! There on the gate we'd lean,
		(The dear, old gate that never gave away
		The loving nothings we were wont to say)
		From day to day,
		And sometimes after dark;
		She was my Angel-Sweetheart, just sixteen.

		But I was shy! And while I longed to taste
		The nectar of her lips, I was afraid
		To draw her to my breast and kiss the Maid:
		But I essayed!
		And this is what I drew—
		"There's Papa with the bulldog, so make haste!"

		What could I do? The "bark" was flecked with foam,
		And old man Jones was meaner than a cur;
		So there I stood 'twixt fear, and love of her
		And didn't stir
		Until they came: and then
		I kissed them all Good-bye and beat it home.




NEW MEXICAN NATIONAL ANTHEM


		My Country vast and grand,
		Sweet Montezuma Land,
		My Stingareé.
		Land of the Knife and Gun,
		Villa and Scorpion;
		Land of the Evil One
		I weep for thee!

		Smallpox and Rattlesnakes
		Lurk in thy Cactus brakes,
		And Yellow Jack.
		Spiders and Centipedes
		Gloat o'er thy murd'rous deeds:
		To cure thy crying needs,
		Call Diaz back.

		Tarantula and Flies
		Poison your lands and skies:
		Behold your graves!
		Carranza's waving beard
		By Pancho's Band is feared,
		And will be till he's sheared
		Or dyes or shaves.

		Horned Toads and Vampire Bats,
		Gilas and Mountain Cats,
		Where'er you go!

		Buzzards and Vultures reign
		Over a million slain;
		And Mescal is the bane
		Of Mexico.

		O, Land of Chili con
		Carne and Obregon,
		Let murders cease!
		Keep Freedom's fires aglow
		Where La Frijólés grow;
		Throw up your Sombrero
		And Keep the Peace!




LOVE



I

		Love is the Mecca of our Heart's Desire:
		We worship at its shrine and feel its thrill;
		Burning our Hopes upon its Altar Fire
		Till Passion be consumed, but not until.


II

		Then Love assumes a calmer mood, when spent—
		His quiver empty and his bow unstrung—
		And peers into the pleasing Past, content
		To live, unmoved, his memories among.




STRONGARM'S WATERLOO


		Some drive! From tee to green in one: par, three!
		That's putting proper English on, you see!
		And, Goodness Golfus! See the ball roll up
		To easy putting distance from the cup.
		Who is this man? Professional, no doubt!
		He'll "card" a thirty-seven going out;
		And if he gets the "breaks" he'll make, methinks,
		A new low record for the Piedmont Links.
		See with what confidence he wends his way
		The Fairway thru to make his hole out play!
		The Gallery, expectant, follows thru
		To see the Champion go down in two.
		Then to the ball he makes his last address,
		(The ball was peeved at what he said, I guess)
		And pulls his gooseneck back a foot or so
		Before he hits the sphere the fateful blow.
		Alas for human frailty! See it flit
		Across the green into the sandy pit!
		The sighing winds, in protest, moaned Beware!
		While he invoked the Deity in prayer.
		And then he played his third, but topped the sphere,
		The Rubber Rogue responding with a leer.

		A halo hung around the Stranger's head
		It seemed: but, nay! 'twas brimstone fire instead,
		For what he said, in type is not displayed
		Except on fire-proof paper, I'm afraid.

		Four! Five! Six! But still far from the goal!
		The Player loses all his self-control
		And breaks the "goose" in twain: then hark the din,
		When Caddie trails the ball and kicks it in!

		Far from the scene of strife the Club House becks
		The weary Golfers on their inward treks;




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