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

RUSSIA

Canst Thou, in all this babel, build arightFreedom's Palladium? The long, black nightThat, ages thru, hath dimmed your yearning eyesAnd dulled your minds, still hovers o'er your skies.A rift there was, disclosing to your viewThe Dawn of Day, but then the darkness grewYet more intense, as if the Sun rebelledAt such a cheerless greeting and withheldIts Light. And now again Night reigns supreme,But just beyond the Day is all agleam.

BELGIUM

Sad-eyed and weary, Thou must suffer more,Until thy supermen have paid the scoreFor outraged daughters, murdered sons and wives;For ravaged homesteads, and brave soldiers' lives.Be not dismayed! Altho your Cup of WoeIs full to overflowing from the blow;Tho Justice seems indifferent to your prayer,And ruin stalks about you everywhere.The day of reckoning is near at hand,When Justice will restore your pillaged Land,And Vengeance will unsheath its righteous bladeAnd flay the Teutons till your score is paid.

OUR FRIENDS ACROSS THE STREET

(To S. and W. A.)When we're tired of reading essays,Tho they be a mental treat;When we're bored by social callers,Be they ever so elite;When we crave some relaxationOr the Foursome's incomplete,We S. O. S. or telephoneTo our Friends across the Street.When our larder needs renewingOr our ice succumbs to heat;When the signs of Drought are brewing'Cause our "stock" is incomplete;And our chairs are insufficientWhen we have some guests to seat,Why, we just go out and borrowFrom our Friends across the Street.When we're worried or in trouble,And our projects meet defeat;When our prospects seem quite hopeless,—Life seems bitter that was sweet;When we lose our nerve and falter'Cause the rough way wounds our feet,We can always find sweet comfortIn our Friends across the Street.When we end, at last, our journeyAnd the saintly Peter greet,Or descend to Realms InfernalWhere the Goats, rejected, bleat,We would never feel contented,Whether mixed with Chaff or Wheat,If we couldn't be togetherWith our Friends across the Street.

EPITAPHS

I left this Vale of Tears to gain repose,And change, for Harp and Wings, my worldly clothes;There's no redress, so if I fall from graceI'll be quite cool enough for either place.WedBledFledDeadNufsedGo not the way I went, O Mortal Man!But follow out a more successful plan,Lest you, as I am now, remorseful beFor imitating U. S. Currency.For forty cents an hour I slavedAt Delpont's Powder Mills;And all the money that I savedScarce paid my funeral bills.Erected to our father is this stone:He couldn't leave the whiskey flask alone;To Spirit World he vanished from our sight;We hope he's very snug, and know he's tight.Above the clouds I sojourn now,The twinkling stars between,Because I tried to figure howTo cook with gasolene.I'm dead all right, but not quite all right dead,For schemes of vengeance hurtle thru my head;My wife eloped, a cheating chicken she;Forsook her nest, and then flew back to meWith all her brood: I love her as I useterBut I'm a-laying for that other Rooster.I followed Father with the rakeThe day he scythed the clover;So green, he cut me, by mistakeAnd my heydays were over.Here sleeps, at last, our little baby Yorick!We couldn't make him without paregoric.I'm not averse to being dead,But this I do despise,—To have a tombstone at my headInscribed with blooming lies:"A faithful spouse, a parent kind;Alas, too soon he went!"But this is all they had in mind—To get my last red cent.Assembled here my Wife is, Helen Nation:'Twas gasoline that caused the separation,Which shows how very short the mortal lease is,—I think 'twas lucky to have saved the pieces!Here let me rest without a sigh or tear,I've learned my lesson—not to interfere!If I could live my mortal life aginI'd be a pussyfoot and not butt in.My Mother, famous for her piesLies buried 'neath this shaft;I wonder if, in Paradise,She still pursues her craft?She'll be too much engrossed, 'twould seem,In picking on the lyreTo give attention to a schemeTo bake without a fire.But if perchance she had the doughAnd couldn't make it rise,I'm sure she'd know just where to goTo look for heat supplies.He called me "Liar!" Like a flashMy honor I defended,Until his razor cut a gashSo deep, that I was ended.If I could live my life againI'd not invite an issueBut say, when villified, Amen!And thus preserve my tissue.

THE CONQUEST OF THE SUN

The Morning Sun, with golden dart,Crept to Milady's bed;And as he drew the screens apartA halo crowned her head.Such radiance he'd never viewed;Enraptured, he surveyedHer virgin charms: beatitude!He stooped and kissed the maid.Entranced because her splendor seemedTo dazzle as it shone,He conjured all his wiles and beamedHer burning cheeks upon.And then she woke, Milady fair,Enchanted by his art,To find, 'midst fires a slumb'ring there,His dart had pierced her heart.And so the Morning Sun can gainMilady when he tries,But Midnight Sons must lose, 'tis plain,Because they're late to rise.

OWED TO A ROACH

O, Thou, who thru the sink doth blithely go;(O, Little Roach, how could you sink so low?)Who pipeth all your kin from kitchens nearWherever crumbs of comfort may appear;Who layeth siege, in mural cracks or trenches,Where grease spots lure or rampant be the stenches;Who hideth in the dough when bread is rising,—I ask you to a Feast, of my devising,—To eat these powders, 'round the plumbing placed,Until your glutted carcass be effaced.O, Little Roach, if you would selfish beAnd not "ring in" your whole fool family,We'd tolerate you: nay, a pet would make youIf you'd not scamper all our pie and cake thru!

THE MOODS OF THE WINDS

O, Breezes of Spring!How they rollick and ringWith delight as they singLike birds on the wing.O, Zephyrs of May!With your balm and bouquet;How you gladden the dayLike Fairies at play.O, Winds of the Fall!How they thrill and enthrall,How they hurtle and callWith shrill caterwaul.O, Winter's bleak Breath!How it freezes and saithTo the ice-vested wraith,"Thou'rt shrouded in Death."

THE TOXIC TIPPET

'Tis said that Mary, she of Reader note,Was wrapped up in her lamb—her lambskin coat—E'en after his demise, beatified.He served her well, and for his mistress dyed.Then Mary died, and took angelic form,Because the lambskin (used to keep her warm)Gave her the anthrax: what a cruel blowTo be thus snatched above from furbelow!

TWENTY-THIRD PSALM

My Shepherd careth for His flock:Beneath a cloudless skyIn pastures green, by spring-cleft rock,In luxury I lie.He brings contentment to my soulAnd leads me to the Light,By which I see the Heav'nly goalFrom dismal depths of Night.Though Poverty attend my wayAnd sorrow fills my heart,Thy Guidance will disaster stay,So good and pure Thou art!Thou, in the presence of my foes,Bestoweth favors rare,And giveth pleasure and reposeIn answer to my prayer.To such a Shepherd I will giveMy everlasting love,And glory in the Hope—to liveWith Him, at last, Above.

FRIENDSHIP

True Friends are rare: who counts them by the scoreIs blest indeed, for we have, seldom, more.If we possess just one real, trusting friendWho shares our troubles, loyal to the end;Who, when we fall, will help us to our feet;Who finds with us contentment most complete;Whose pocket-book and heart are open thrownWhether we need affection or a loan,And makes no record of the favor done,But gives, with equal pleasure, either one—That's Friendship true! If I had twenty such,With all their purses open to my touch,And each disposed to "stake" me and forgetThe circumstance and measure of the debt,I'd soon be on the road to ease and plenty,But wish I had such friendships more than twenty.

PARAMOUNT PROBLEMS

Shall Women vote? Shall Demon Rum surviveOr be, thru Woman Suffrage, flayed alive?These are the questions that engross the nation:Shall Women vote or be kept on probation?Are they not gentle, honest, sweet and kind?A single missing virtue we can't find,And yet we say—"Stay home and can the cherries!You're far too frail and fine for statecraft worries!The Sacred Home for you! Just 'tend your chicks!You'd soil your hands to mix in Politics!And then there's scrubbing, cooking and a fewOdd jobs besides: you couldn't ballot too!"But how absurd! Fair Woman, in her wrath,Will make our future course a thorny path:Unless we meet her fairly in these matters,She'll tear our senseless arguments to tatters,And rule both Home and State to suit herself,Putting deceitful man upon the shelf.As sure as death or taxes, day or night,She'll have the vote without, or with a fight;And those of us who counsel Peace, as best,Should not oppose and put her to the test;And when she gets the vote, by force or gift,The clouds obscuring Temperance will lift;For all the Wets will vanish, ev'ry one!Evaporate like mists before the sun.True, Women drink; it's foolish to deny it!But not as men do—as a steady diet;They'll take a punch, or sip a little claret,But when it comes to liquor—they can't bear it.And so we ask again—shall Women vote?Shall men surrender to the petticoatAnd give up all their freedom and their tipplesJust to return to Lacteal Life and Nipples?The War is on! Nebraska bids defianceTo Rum Dispensers and the Booze Alliance:Hereafter all our barley, wheat and cornWill be quite unresponsive to the horn.The essence of the grain will be tabooedAnd ev'ry seed accounted for as food.No more will Barleycorn assail our vitalsOr be the Leader in our Song Recitals:No more will Liquor check our ardent thirst,And so we'll go from bad, perhaps, to worst.If we must eat, perforce, and never rum it,What will befall the man who has to gum it;Whose teeth are absent and who food eschews,Drawing his daily nourishment from booze;Who can't obtain a single drop of ginTo comfort and sustain the man within?Pleading for drinks, unheeded he'll grow wheezy,But he'll improve his breath if he'll Speak Easy.The Drunkard's fate would be a dreadful warning,Who, having "opened" Riley's place each morningFound, one cold dawn, the foot-rail gone and read—"Soft Drinks for Sale" where Schnapps was sold instead.Picture his sorrow! See him pallid growWhen told the facts: a spectacle of woe!Back to his wife he slinks: he couldn't face her!Because he missed his usual "morning bracer."The Place is sold: it's now a candy storeWhere Schnapps will be dispensed with evermore.Good-bye, Old Demijohn; Decanters, too!His life will empty be—and so are you!Where once the Canteen flourished 'neath our flag,Now Prohibition flags the soldier's jag;And where Josephus keeps his arid logThe water-pitcher has succeeded grog.Some Commonwealths already have the pluckTo ban, humanely, those who chase the duck;And other States have punished Rum enoughTo have compassion on the boot-leg stuff.Thus Prohibition grows: but so does wheatAnd corn and rye: I wonder which will beat?But what of Woman? Where's her rightful freedom?They ought to have the vote, because we need 'emTo purge our land of drunkenness and crimeAnd save our striplings from the slough and slime.Why shouldn't Women vote? Perhaps they may!Should Drunkards or Illiterates say nay?Could citizens of foreign birth refuseTo give our Native Daughters what they choose?Our Native Sons with chivalry invokeFair play for women,—freedom from the yoke;And shouldn't other Freemen rise in flocksTo help our Women win the Ballot Box?The trouble lies, not here, but with the BossesWho trade in graft and deal in double crosses.The sooner we eliminate this classThe quicker will full freedom come to pass.But watch the Anti! Make her hold her tongue,Or duck her in the pond, the geese among;Or lock her in the booth, without a mirror,Where she can't see herself and we can't hear her.Thus, neck and neck, these two great questions lead:Will men be equal to their Country's need?If one Reform upon the other waits,Speed Equal Suffrage to the White House gates,And Prohibition (Farewell, Dear old Liquor!)Will follow as the tape pursues the ticker!But if, perchance, the Dry's should get a trimmin',Smile, if you please,—but don't prohibit Women!

A REUNION

Once more, Good Friends, we're gathered 'round the boardTo feel the joys of fellowship restored.There's nothing like them! Friends can't be replaced,Nor thoughts of them from Memory be effaced!Of course we form new friendships, but I feelThat these, like old ones, are not staunch and real.It takes long years to prove our friends, you know,—Those who are steadfast in our weal or woe.So here's to you, Miss Prim! and you, Miss Prude!We wouldn't have you different if we could!Two Roses rare you are, and sweet; I weenYou were not doomed to bloom and blush unseen.I've seen your cheeks suffused with crimson hues;(Dame Nature's make-up is the rouge you use!)I've seen your lips in saucy challenge perked;(But for your protests, they'd be overworked!)I've seen your eyes with mischief filled and tears;(But I could never pity you, My Dears!)I've seen your breasts with agitation heave;(Your hearts must be affected, I believe!)I've seen your shapely forms pass in reviewBefore my lonely couch, in dreams of you,—And what I haven't seen, some little birdHas told me all about. Upon my word,If what he says be true, what I have heardTo what I've seen, methinks, would be preferred.Then here's to Friendship! What more potent forceDoth link mankind together? Love, of course,Doth fetter us betimes, but Time must sayWhom we shall cherish, whom to cast away.When Love and Friendship, heart and hand, are bound,What more of Joy can compass us around?So, Friends and Sweethearts, Comrades tried and true,We pledge our love and loyalty to you!

THE CRUISE OF THE SQUIRREL

Somewhere, sometime, I've heard it said, or readThat Fools butt in where Angels fear to tread.A single "Angel" with a Pack of FoolsIs not enough to change established rules;And so, I think, the "Angel" in this caseShould bear, alone, the onus and disgrace,—For Angels should know better than to swoopUpon the Dove of Peace and fowl her coop.The Good Ship Squirrel has left our shores behindTo measure human breath 'gainst Ocean Wind."Laden with Nuts" her clearance shows. Four Bells!She's off! to fight for Peace with all those shells.No Port, however, figures in her quest,Her "papers" show,—and this is manifest!The Dove of Peace, perched on the mizzen-top,Hath disappointments sticking in her crop.The peaceful bird is shy and very frail;Can't stand the weight of salt upon her tail;The War has made her nervous, and the roarOf many cannon made the poor bird soar.Up springs a storm! The Dove's white feathers show,While Nuts are cracking on the deck below.And then an iceberg looms against the sky,But still the Dove is far too proud to fly;But when, anon, a periscope appearsThe Bird of Peace is overcome by fears,And "beats it" to the iceberg's crystal crest,Where she prepares to build her neutral nest.The Submarine atop the billows now,Stands by the Squirrel until she dips her bowAnd sinks beneath the waves; then looks aboveAnd takes a parting broadside at the Dove.The "Angel" then, in Neptune's sky-machineAscendeth in a blaze of gasoline;The Dove, marooned, broods over many things,Nestling her poor cold feet beneath her wings.Regenerate, the Angel has returnedFrom empyrean Flight, to Earth, and learned(I think Saint Peter gave him sound advice!)To keep the Pacifistic Germ on iceUntil a Luther, if there still remainsOne decent man where Wilhelm Cæsar reigns,Denounces all the crimes of Germany,And proselytes to crush Autocracy.

JINGLES

Little Bo PeepWent fast to sleep;Losing her sheep.There were ninety and nine of these lambkins that fledWhen poor, little Bo was asleep in her bed;And when they returned they were mutton instead.O, what a stew!'Twixt me and yewWhat could Bo do?O! Jack and JillWent up the hill,Their pail to fill.The water was running: they didn't pursue,But filled up their growler with Double X Brew,And Jill, in a measure, was full, and Jack too.Both had a thirst:Jack's was the worst:He tumbled first.Horner boy JackHad the right knack;Cornered the snack.His fortune grew fast from that one Christmas plum;His profits on 'Change showed a marvelous sum,Till he soon had Financialdom under his thumb.O! what a wiz!Jack knew his biz:All now is his.Good old King Cole,"Merry old Soul,"Knew how to bowl.No high-balls were spared at his nocturnal spread,And the fumes of the liquor would strike in his headTill, knocked off his pins, he was set up in bed.Jackass or kingWill have his fling:Naughty, Old Thing.Old Lady DrewLived in a shoe:Children there too.Their home was too cramped for a dozen or more,But others have suffered from tight shoes before,So the latch-string was always hung out on the door.To upper skiesGood old sole flies,With all her ties.The Drews and Jack Horner lived on the same street:Jack gambled with Hymen and Drew Marguerite,And love for his sole-mate affected his feet.There ne'er was a "comeback" to poor Jack and Jill;The King followed after them going "down hill,"And Bo, left alone, is a sheepish maid still.

THE WEIGHT OF LOVE

I was sitting in the parlorWith my Sweetheart on my knee,And the fireplace lights and shadowsSilhouetted her and me.Heavy grew she towards the morning,When the gold-fringed sunbeams leap:She was wide awake as everBut my leg was fast asleep.Flesh is weak and so I shiftedMy loved load, as best I could,From the numb knee to the other;From the leg of flesh to wood.Then I felt my Sweetheart shiver,And I realized her stateWhen she drew a white-ash sliverFrom the leg articulate.

DO IT!

Dare to do it!You'll not rue itIf you save some Human CraftFrom the rocks where fierce gales blew it,Using Kindness for a raft.O, dare to do!Be kind and trueTo the friends you make thru life;Then High Heaven will reward youWith immunity from strife.If a LionWere a dyin',Would you go into his lairAnd attempt to soothe his cryin'?Do it! Do it, if you dare!

AMENITIES

The Parson tied the Hymen knotThat made two halves a whole;The while a speculating whatWould be his marriage toll.The Groom, when he had kissed the Bride,Was taken with the chills:Her icy lips could not abideOsculatory thrills.But soon his fever was effaced;His hand obeyed his will,And in the Parson's palm he placedA soiled One Dollar Bill."Anathema!" the preacher cried,—"Thou reptile of the Earth!"The Groom replied—"Then take the Bride!I think it's all she's worth!"

"DANSER SUR UN VULCAN"

Now goeth forth the Swell elite,With patent leathers on his feet;With collar spotless, cuffs to suit,In truth bon-ton, from hat to boot.A bootblack, with an eye to biz,With dirty hands and ugly phiz,Beholds him as he goes, and throwsBanana peels beneath his toes.Along the pave Adonis trips;He steps upon the peel, and slipsInto the juicy gutter:His eyes are filled with fire and ire,But water, muck and mire conspireTo drown the words he'd utter.L'ENVOIGo where you will, the stars will shine,And so will Tony, I opine:But O! the stars Adonis spiedWhen he went "out," a sewerside.

AT THE BULGING UDDER TIME

Years have passed since I, an urchin,Drove the Cow, so sleek and prime,Down the path, where crows were perchin'At the Bulging Udder Time.Those were days well worth one's living,When I watched, with joy sublime,What the generous Cow was givingAt the Bulging Udder Time.Later on, when we grew older,Father gave us each a dime—Me and Bill—to milk and hold her,At the Bulging Udder Time:But, alas! we came to grieving:Bill was kicked and smeared with grime,And the Cow boo-booed on leaving—"Come around some udder time!"

VAGARIES

The husky Corn has pushed ahead with silken locks atop;O, Brother, ain't it shocking?And Colonels are expecting quite a bumper Bourbon crop—Saloonward they are flocking!But when they strip the ears and find the wasteful worms surrounding,'Twill make the "moonshine" dimmer;For ev'ry still has coils of worms illicitly aboundingWhere sour-mash mixtures simmer.The hillside Stills their fragrance breathe, and wood birds are a sounding;My jug is in the hollow:So fill it up, but watch your step and Secret Service hounding!The scent is sweet to follow.The Cotton Bolls are bursting forth with weevils in the sepals;Come, Dinah, get to picking!And rush the staple to the mart to clothe the naked peoples!Or you will get a licking!The baleful Gins are all prepared to do the fibre-squeezing:Get busy, Massa Willie!And set the weevils back a bit, and save the folks from freezing!It's getting powerful chilly!You Pickaninnies hustle now, and do the proper bagging!The possum's cooking, Honey!And when the work is thru we'll do our banjo stunts, and raggingAnd get our "Cakewalk" money.

A SHATTERED ROMANCE

My heart is aflame with a love that enslavesMy passion for thee is afire;My soul is athirst for the love that it craves,And you are the one I admire.Pray speak, Dear! and say your affections are mine,And all the sweet charms you possess;Then I will surrender my wishes to thineAnd be but thy slave, I confess.When she answered, at length, I felt very sureI'd pleaded my cause quite enough;"You're the one man on earth I couldn't endure,So cut out that comedy stuff!"

THE MILKY WAY

I went to school, like any lad,And learned to read and write:With pencil, books and writing-padI grew quite erudite.Promoted soon, my Teacher thoughtI would some day, be great;And so painstakingly he taughtMe how to conjugate.And talked to me about the Moon,Of Venus, Saturn, Mars,Till I was rated, very soon,Authority on Stars.A graduate, I searched the skiesFor orbs unknown before,Determined that I'd specializeIn Astronomic lore:But how to buy a telescopeAnd all the charts required?An attick was my only hopeOf all the things desired:And so I compromised and boughtBinoculars and case,And ev'ry night the Stars I soughtAt Daly's Burlesque Place.The one, bright, meteoric FlameIn all that stellar group,Soon fell for me; then took my nameAnd quit the Burlesque Troupe.But I'm eclipsed! the SatelliteThat twinkles in the crib,Keeps Mother pinning, day and night,A didy or a bib.

THE LOGOTHETE

"Beware the dog!" Beware the Logothete!The Octoped with elephantine feet:(I mean by this—with the big understanding;The Byzantine Pup of Theodore's branding.)A thousand years chained to Hellespont's brink,He never once whimpered or lapped up a drink.Hydrophobia? No! just aphasia,'Cause he couldn't cross over to Asia.The old Logothete is the Watch Dog of State:He feeds upon figures (he'll cipher an eight!)And starts ev'ry meal with a twelve or sixteen,Then multiplies units to munch on between.Voracity thus as an integer standsFor his diurnal gorge on multiplicands.Numerical strength makes the Logothete thrive,And fractions he dotes on—just eats 'em alive!He lashes his tail by Marmora's flood,But eats from the hand of Sultan Ahmud;A collar of gold, set with aquamarines,Makes him the envy of Justin's near-queens;His Kennel-Kiosque (the hyphen's germane!)Rivals the harems of Constantine's reign.Innocuous? No! nor yet desuetude,For he daily absorbs whole columns of food.His teeth are as sharp as the Damaskeene bladeThat severed the chains on the Macedon maid;And as keen as the knife avenging the dameWho was sold to the Sheik in Mesopotame.But the point that I make—no whimper or yelpHad ever been voiced by this Logothete whelpUntil Archæologists, searching the grounds,Unearthed dogmatisms and bitumen soundsOf the highest known pitch, resembling a whineOr unrav'ling snarls of the Octopedine.And thus they've exploded the silence completeTradition ascribes to the old Logothete1—And so, in unleashing this Byzantine Pup,They merit grave censure for digging things up.

THE PRICE OF PEACE

There's music in the Eagle's shriek;There's ditto in the Lion's roar,But discord marks the BolshevikBecause the Bear doth growl no more.The Dogs of War are out of tune,—No harmony doth move the critters:Unless they cease their fighting soonThe wounded whelps will have no litters.Jerusalem! the Turk is spent!The bagpipes took his breath, I think.The Crescent now is badly bent,And Allah's cause is on the blink.The Bulgar too has shot his bolt,And soon will quit—the poor pariah!For now there's rumor of revoltIn Ananias and Sofia.The Hun is playing with the Slav—The Kremlin Mouse and Potsdam Cat;But Cossack, too, can smear the salve,And 'twixt them twain doth Peace fall flat.Some day the Dove of Peace will swoopWith long, befigured bill, and put itAgainst the Vulture-Kultur coopAnd make the Prussian Junkers foot it.