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diff --git a/4756-h/4756-h.htm b/4756-h/4756-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c92d180 --- /dev/null +++ b/4756-h/4756-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1457 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum, +by Wallace Irwin +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {font-size: 80% ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.transnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.intro {font-size: medium ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum, by Wallace Irwin + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum + +Author: Wallace Irwin + +Posting Date: September 4, 2009 [EBook #4756] +Release Date: December, 2003 +First Posted: March 12, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM *** + + + + +Produced by David A. Schwan. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +by +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +Wallace Irwin +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + With an Introduction by<BR> + Gelett Burgess<BR> +</H3> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Showing how Vanity is still on Deck,<BR> + & humble Virtue gets it in the Neck!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "A Leaden Heart I wear since she forsook me."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Introduction +</H3> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Tell me, ye muses, what hath former ages<BR> + Now left succeeding times to play upon,<BR> + And what remains unthought on by those sages<BR> + Where a new muse may try her pinion?"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +So Complained Phineas Fletcher in his Purple Island as long ago as 1633. +Three centuries have brought to the development of lyric passion no +higher form than that of the sonnet cycle. The sonnet has been likened +to an exquisite crystal goblet that holds one sublimely inspired thought +so perfectly that not another drop can be added without overflow. Cast +in the early Italian Renaissance by Dante, Petrarch and Camoens, it was +chased and ornamented during the Elizabethan period by Shakespere, and +filled with its most stimulating draughts of song and love during the +Victorian era by Rossetti, Browning and Meredith. And now, in this first +year of the new century, the historic cup is refilled and tossed off in +a radiant toast to Erato by Wallace Irwin. +</P> + +<P> +The attribute of modernity is not given to every new age. The cogs in +the wheels of time slip back, at times. The classic revival may be +permeated with enthusiasm, but it is a second edition of an old +work—not a virile essay at expression of living thought. The later +Renaissance was but half modern in its spirit; the classic period of the +eighteenth century in England was half ancient in its mood. But the +twentieth century breaks with a new promise of emancipation to English +Literature, for a new influence has freshened the blood of conventional +style that in the decadence of the End of the Century had grown dilute. +This adjuvant strain is found in the enthusiasm of Slang. Slowly its +rhetorical power has won foothold in the language. It has won many a +verb and substantive, it has conquered idiom and diction, and now it is +strong enough to assault the very syntax of our Anglo-Saxon tongue.[*] +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="footnote"> +[*] Note, for instance, the potential mood used indicatively in the +current colloquial, "Wouldn't that jar you!" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Slang, the illegitimate sister of Poetry, makes with her a common cause +against the utilitarian economy of Prose. They both stand for lavish +luxuriance in trope and involution, for floriation and adornment of +thought. It is their boast to make two words bloom where one grew +before. Both garb themselves in Metaphor, and the only complaint of the +captious can be that whereas Poetry follows the accepted style, Slang +dresses her thought to suit herself in fantastic and bizarre caprices, +that her whims are unstable and too often in bad taste. +</P> + +<P> +But this odium given to Slang by superficial minds is undeserved. In +other days, before the language was crystallized into the idiom and +verbiage of the doctrinaire, prose, too, was untrammeled. Indeed, a +cursory glance at the Elizabethan poets discloses a kinship with the +rebellious fancies of our modern colloquial talk. Mr. Irwin's sonnets +may be taken as an indication of this revolt, and how nearly they +approach the incisive phrases of the seventeenth century may easily be +shown in a few exemplars. For instance, in Sonnet XX, "You're the real +tan bark!" we have a close parallel in Johnson's Volpone, or The Fox: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Fellows of outside and mere bark!"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +And this instance is an equally good illustration also of that curious +process which, in the English language, has in time created for a single +word ("cleave," for instance) two exactly opposite meanings. A line from +John Webster's Appius and Virginia might be cited as showing how near +his diction approached modern slang: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "My most neat and cunning orator, whose tongue is quicksilver;"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +and, for an analogy similar, though elaborate, compare lines 5-8 in +Sonnet XI. In Beaumont and Fletcher's Philaster, +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "A pernicious petticoat prince"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +is as close to "Mame's dress-suit belle" of No. VII as modern costume +allows, and +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "No, you scarab!"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +from Ben Jonson's Alchemist gives a curious clue to the derivation of +the popular term "scab" found in No. VI. Webster's forcible picture in +The White Devil— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Fate is a spaniel; we cannot beat it from us!"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +finds a rival in Mr. Irwin's strong simile—"O Fate, thou art a +lobster!" in No. IV. And, to conclude, since such similarities might be +quoted without end, note this exclamation from Beaumont and Fletcher's +Woman's Prize, written before the name of the insect had achieved the +infamy now fastened upon it by the British Matron: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "These are bug's words!"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +Not only does this evidently point out the origin of "Jim-jam bugs" in +No. IX, and the better known modern synonym for brain, "bug-house," but +it indicates the arbitrary tendency of all language to create gradations +of caste in parts of speech. It is to this mysterious influence by which +some words become "elegant" or "poetic," and others "coarse" or +"unrefined," that we owe the contempt in which slang is held by the +superficial Philistine. +</P> + +<P> +In Mr. Irwin's sonnet cycle, however, we have slang idealized, or as +perhaps one might better say, sublimated. Evolution in the argot of the +streets works by a process of substitution. A phrase of two terms goes +through a system of permutation before it is discarded or adopted into +authorized metaphor. "To take the cake," for instance, a figure from the +cake-walk of the negroes, becomes to "capture" or "corral" the "bun" or +"biscuit." Nor is this all, for in the higher forms of slang the idea is +paraphrased in the most elaborate verbiage, an involution so intricate +that, without a knowledge of the intervening steps, the meaning is often +almost wholly lost. Specimens of this cryptology are found in many of +Mr. Irwin's sonnets, notably in No. V: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "My syncopated con-talk no avail."<BR> +</P> + +<P> +We trace these synonyms through "rag-time," etc., to an almost +subliminal thought—an adjective resembling "verisimilitudinarious," +perhaps, qualifying the "con" or confidential talk that proved useless +to bring Mame back to his devotion. +</P> + +<P> +In the masterly couplet closing the sestet of No. XVIII, Mr. Irwin's +verbal enthusiasm reaches its highest mark in an ultra-Meredithian +rendition of "I am an easy mark," an expression, by the way, which would +itself have to be elaborately translated in any English edition. +</P> + +<P> +Enough of the glamors of Mr. Irwin's dulcet vagaries. He will stand, +perhaps as the chief apostle of the hyperconcrete. With Mr. Ade as the +head of the school, and insistent upon the didactic value of slang, Mr. +Irwin presents in this cycle no mean claims to eminence in the truly +lyric vein. Let us turn to a contemplation of his more modest hero. +</P> + +<P> +I have attempted in vain to identify him, the "Willie" of these sonnets. +The police court records of San Francisco abound in characters from +which Mr. Irwin's conception of this pyrotechnically garrulous Hoodlum +might have been drawn, and even his death from cigarette-smoking, +prognosticated in No. XXII, does not sufficiently identify him. Whoever +he was, he was a type of the latter-day lover, instinct with that +self-analysis and consciousness of the dramatic value of his emotion +that has reached even the lower classes. The sequence of the sonnets +clearly indicates the progress of his love affair with Mary, a heroine +who has, in common with the heroines of previous sonnet cycles, Laura, +Stella and Beatricia, only this, that she inspired her lover to an +eloquence that might have been better spent orally upon the object of +his affections. Even the author's scorn does not prevent the reader from +indulging in a surreptitious sympathy with the flamboyant coquetry of +his "peacherino," his "Paris Pansy." For she, too, was of the caste of +the articulate; did she not +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Cough up loops of kindergarten chin?"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +and could we hear Mame's side of the quarrel, no doubt our Hoodlum +would be convicted by every reader. But Kid Murphy, the pusillanimous +rival, was even less worthy of the superb Amazon who bore him to the +altar. "See how that Murphy cake-walks in his pride!" is the +cri-du-coeur the gentlest reader must inevitably render. +</P> + +<P> +But "the Peach crops come and go," as Mr. George Ade so eloquently +observes. We must not take our hero's gloomy threats too seriously. +There are other babies on the bunch, and no doubt he is, long ere this, +consoled with a "neater, sweeter maiden" to whom his Muse will sing +again a happier refrain. In this hope we close his dainty introspections +and await his next burst of song! +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Gelett Burgess. +<BR> +San Francisco, Nov. 1, 1901 +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +An Inside Con to Refined Guys +</H3> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Let me down easy, reader, say!<BR> + Don't run the bluff that you are on,<BR> + Or proudly scoff at every toff<BR> + Who rattles off a rag-time con.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Get next to how the French Villon,<BR> + Before Jack Hangman yanked him high,<BR> + Quilled slangy guff and Frenchy stuff<BR> + And kicked up rough the same as I.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + And Byron, Herrick, Burns, forby,<BR> + Got gay with Erato, much the same<BR> + As I now do to show to you<BR> + The way into the Hall of Fame.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Prologue +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Wouldn't it jar you, wouldn't it make you sore<BR> + To see the poet, when the goods play out,<BR> + Crawl off of poor old Pegasus and tout<BR> + His skate to two-step sonnets off galore?<BR> + Then, when the plug, a dead one, can no more<BR> + Shake rag-time than a biscuit, right about<BR> + The poem-butcher turns with gleeful shout<BR> + And sends a batch of sonnets to the store.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The sonnet is a very easy mark,<BR> + A James P. Dandy as a carry-all<BR> + For brain-fag wrecks who want to keep it dark<BR> + Just why their crop of thinks is running small.<BR> + On the low down, dear Maine, my looty loo,<BR> + That's why I've cooked this batch of rhymes for you.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + I<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Say, will she treat me white, or throw me down,<BR> + Give me the glassy glare, or welcome hand,<BR> + Shovel me dirt, or treat me on the grand,<BR> + Knife me, or make me think I own the town?<BR> + Will she be on the level, do me brown,<BR> + Or will she jolt me lightly on the sand,<BR> + Leaving poor Willie froze to beat the band,<BR> + Limp as your grandma's Mother Hubbard gown?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + I do not know, nor do I give a whoop,<BR> + But this I know: if she is so inclined<BR> + She can come play with me on our back stoop,<BR> + Even in office hours, I do not mind—<BR> + In fact I know I'm nice and good and ready<BR> + To get an option on her as my steady.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + II<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + On the dead level I am sore of heart,<BR> + For nifty Mame has frosted me complete,<BR> + Since ten o'clock, G. M., when on the street<BR> + I saw my lightning finish from the start.<BR> + O goo-goo eye, how glassy gazed thou art<BR> + To freeze my spinach solid when we meet,<BR> + And keep thy Willie on the anxious seat<BR> + Like a bum Dago on an apple cart!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Is it because my pants fit much too soon,<BR> + Or that my hand-me-down is out of style,<BR> + That thou dost turn me under when I spoon,<BR> + Nor hand me hothouse beauties with a smile?<BR> + If that's the case, next week I'll scorch the line<BR> + Clad in a shell I'll buy of Cohenstein.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + III<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + As follows is the make-up I shall buy,<BR> + Next week, when from the boss I pull my pay:—<BR> + A white and yellow zig-zag cutaway,<BR> + A sunset-colored vest and purple tie,<BR> + A shirt for vaudeville and something fly<BR> + In gunboat shoes and half-hose on the gay.<BR> + I'll get some green shoe-laces, by the way,<BR> + And a straw lid to set 'em stepping high.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Then shall I shine and be the great main squeeze,<BR> + The warm gazook, the only on the bunch,<BR> + The Oklahoma wonder, the whole cheese,<BR> + The baby with the Honolulu hunch—<BR> + That will bring Mame to time—I should say yes!<BR> + Ain't my dough good as Murphy's? Well, I guess!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + IV<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + O fate, thou art a lobster, but not dead!<BR> + Silently dost thou grab, e'en as the cop<BR> + Nabs the poor hobo, sneaking from a shop<BR> + With some rich geezer's tile upon his head.<BR> + By thy fake propositions are we led<BR> + To get quite chesty, when it's buff! kerflop!!<BR> + We take a tumble and the cog-wheels stop,<BR> + Leaving the patient seeing stars in bed.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + So was I swatted, for I could not draw<BR> + My last week's pay. I got the dinky dink.<BR> + No more I see the husk in dreams I saw,<BR> + And Mame is mine some more, I do not think.<BR> + I know my rival, and it makes me sore—<BR> + 'Tis Murphy, night clerk in McCann's drug store.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + V<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Last night—ah, yesternight—I flagged my queen<BR> + Steering for Grunsky's ice-cream joint full sail!<BR> + I up and braced her, breezy as a gale,<BR> + And she was the all-rightest ever seen.<BR> + Just then Brick Murphy butted in between,<BR> + Rushing my funny song-and-dance to jail,<BR> + My syncopated con-talk no avail,<BR> + For Murphy was the only nectarine.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + This is a sample of the hand I get<BR> + When I am playing more than solitaire,<BR> + Showing how I become the slowest yet<BR> + When it's a case of razors in the air,<BR> + And competition knocks me off creation<BR> + Like a gin-fountain smashed by Carrie Nation.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + VI<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + See how that Murphy cake-walks in his pride,<BR> + That brick-topped Murphy, fourteen-dollar jay;<BR> + You'd think he'd leased the sidewalk by the way<BR> + He takes up half a yard on either side!<BR> + I'm wise his diamond ring's a cut-glass snide,<BR> + His overcoat is rented by the day,<BR> + But still no kick is coming yet from Mae<BR> + When Murphy cuts the cake so very wide.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Rubber, thou scab! Don't throw on so much spaniel!<BR> + Say, are there any more at home like you?<BR> + You're not the only lion after Daniel,<BR> + You're not the only oyster in the stew.<BR> + Get next, you pawn-shop sport! Come oft the fence<BR> + Before I make you look like thirty cents!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + VII<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Mayhap you think I cinched my little job<BR> + When I made meat of Mamie's dress-suit belle.<BR> + If that's your hunch you don't know how the swell<BR> + Can put it on the plain, unfinished slob<BR> + Who lacks the kiss-me war paint of the snob<BR> + And can't make good inside a giddy shell;<BR> + Wherefore the reason I am fain to tell<BR> + The slump that caused me this melodious sob.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + For when I pushed Brick Murphy to the rope<BR> + Mame manned the ambulance and dragged him in,<BR> + Massaged his lamps with fragrant drug store dope<BR> + And coughed up loops of kindergarten chin;<BR> + She sprang a come back, piped for the patrol,<BR> + Then threw a glance that tommyhawked my soul.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + VIII<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + I sometimes think that I am not so good,<BR> + That there are foxier, warmer babes than I,<BR> + That Fate has given me the calm go-by<BR> + And my long suit is sawing mother's wood.<BR> + Then would I duck from under if I could,<BR> + Catch the hog special on the jump, and fly<BR> + To some Goat Island planned by destiny<BR> + For dubs and has-beens and that solemn brood.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + But spite of bug-wheels in my cocoa tree,<BR> + The trade in lager beer is still a-humming,<BR> + A schooner can be purchased for a V<BR> + Or even grafted if you're fierce at bumming.<BR> + My finish then less clearly do I see,<BR> + For lo! I have another think a-coming.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + IX<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Last night I tumbled off the water cart—<BR> + It was a peacherino of a drunk;<BR> + I put the cocktail market on the punk<BR> + And tore up all the sidewalks from the start.<BR> + The package that I carried was a tart<BR> + That beat Vesuvius out for sizz and spunk,<BR> + And when they put me in my little bunk<BR> + You couldn't tell my jag and me apart.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Oh! would I were the ice man for a space,<BR> + Then might I cool this red-hot cocoanut,<BR> + Corral the jim-jam bugs that madly race<BR> + Around the eaves that from my forehead jut—<BR> + Or will a carpenter please come instead<BR> + And build a picket fence around my head?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + X<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + As one who with his landlord stands deuce high<BR> + And blocks his board bill off with I O U's,<BR> + Touching the barkeep lightly for his booze,<BR> + Sidestepping when a creditor goes by,<BR> + Soaking his mother's watch-chain on the sly,<BR> + Haply his ticker, too, haply his shoes,<BR> + Till Mr. Johnson comes to turn him loose<BR> + And lift the mortgage from that poor cheap guy;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + So am I now small change in Mamie's scorn,<BR> + A microbe's egg, or two-bits in a fog,<BR> + A first cornet that cannot toot a horn,<BR> + A Waterbury watch that's slipped a cog;<BR> + For when her make-up's twisted to a frown,<BR> + What can I but go 'way back and sit down?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XI<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + O scaly Mame to give me such a deal,<BR> + To hand me such a bunch when I was true!<BR> + You played me double and you knew it, too,<BR> + Nor cared a wad of gum how I would feel.<BR> + Can you not see that Murphy's handy spiel<BR> + Is cheap balloon juice of a Blarney brew,<BR> + A phonograph where all he has to do<BR> + Is give the crank a twist and let 'er reel?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Nay, love has put your optics on the bum,<BR> + To you are Murphy's gold bricks all O. K.;<BR> + His talks go down however rank they come,<BR> + For he has got you going, fairy fay.<BR> + Ah, well! In that I'm in the box with you,<BR> + For love has got poor Willie groggy, too.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XII<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Life is a combination hard to buck,<BR> + A proposition difficult to beat,<BR> + E'en though you get there Zaza with both feet,<BR> + In forty flickers, it's the same hard luck,<BR> + And you are up against it nip and tuck,<BR> + Shanghaied without a steady place to eat,<BR> + Guyed by the very copper on your beat<BR> + Who lays to jug you when you run amuck.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + O Life! you give Yours Truly quite a pain.<BR> + On the T square I do not like your style;<BR> + For you are playing favorites again<BR> + And you have got me handicapped a mile.<BR> + Avaunt, false Life, with all your pride and pelf:<BR> + Go take a running jump and chase yourself!<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XIII<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + If I were smooth as eels and slick as soap,<BR> + A baked-wind expert, jolly with my clack,<BR> + Gally enough to ask my money back<BR> + Before the steerer feeds me knock-out dope,<BR> + Still might I throw a duck-fit in my hope<BR> + That I possessed a headpiece like a tack<BR> + To get my Mamie in my private sack<BR> + Ere she could flag some Handsome Hank and slope.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + What ho! she bumps! My wish avails me not,<BR> + My work is coarse and Mame is onto me;<BR> + So am I never Johnny-on-the-spot<BR> + When any wooden Siwash ought to be.<BR> + Thus I get busy working up a grouch<BR> + Whenever heartless Mame harpoons me—ouch!<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XIV<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + O mommer! wasn't Mame a looty toot<BR> + Last night when at the Rainbow Social Club<BR> + She did the bunny hug with every scrub<BR> + From Hogan's Alley to the Dutchman's Boot,<BR> + While little Willie, like a plug-eared mute,<BR> + Papered the wall and helped absorb the grub,<BR> + Played nest-egg with the benches like a dub<BR> + When hot society was easy fruit!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Am I a turnip? On the strict Q. T.,<BR> + When do my Trilbys get so ossified?<BR> + Why am I minus when it's up to me<BR> + To brace my Paris Pansy for a glide?<BR> + Once more my hoodoo's thrown the game and scored<BR> + A flock of zeros on my tally-board.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XV<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Nixie! I'm not canned chicken till I'm cooked,<BR> + And hope still rooms in this pneumatic chest,<BR> + While something's doing underneath my vest<BR> + That makes me think I'm squiffier than I looked.<BR> + Mayhap Love knew my class when I was booked<BR> + As one shade speedier than second best<BR> + To knock the previous records galley west,<BR> + While short-end suckers on my bait were hooked.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Mayhap—I give it up—but this I know:<BR> + When I saw Mamie on the line today<BR> + She turned her happy searchlights on me so,<BR> + And grinned so like a living picture—say,<BR> + If a real lady threw you such a chunk,<BR> + Could n't she pack her Raglan in your trunk?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XVI<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Oh, for a fist to push a fancy quill!<BR> + A Lover's Handy Letter Writer, too,<BR> + To help me polish off this billy doo<BR> + So it can jolly Mame and make a kill,<BR> + Coax her to think that I'm no gilded pill,<BR> + But rather the unadulterated goo.<BR> + Below I give a sample of the brew<BR> + I've manufactured in my thinking mill:<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Gum Drop:—Your tanglefoot has got my game,<BR> + I'm stuck so tight you cannot shake your catch;<BR> + It's cruelty to insects—honest, Mame,—<BR> + So won't you join me in a tie-up match?<BR> + If you'll talk business I'm your lemon pie.<BR> + Please answer and relieve<BR> +<BR> + An Anxious Guy."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XVII<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Woman, you are indeed a false alarm;<BR> + You offer trips to heaven at tourist's rates<BR> + And publish fairy tales about the dates<BR> + You're going to keep (not meaning any harm),<BR> + Then get some poor old Rube fresh from the farm,<BR> + As graceful as a kangaroo on skates,<BR> + Trying to transfer at the Pearly Gates—<BR> + For instance, note this jolt that smashed the charm:—<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "P.S.—You are all right, but you won't do.<BR> + You may be up a hundred in the shade,<BR> + But there are cripples livelier than you,<BR> + And my man Murphy's strictly union-made.<BR> + You are a bargain, but it seems a shame<BR> + That you should drink so much.<BR> + Yours truly,<BR> + Mame."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XVIII<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Last night I dreamed a passing dotty dream—<BR> + I thought the cards were coming all my way,<BR> + That I could shut and open things all day<BR> + While Mame and I were getting thick as cream,<BR> + And starred as an amalgamated team<BR> + In a cigar-box flat across the bay—<BR> + Just then the alarm clock blew to pieces. Say,<BR> + Wouldn't that jam you? I should rather scream.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Sleep, like a bunco artist, rubbed it in,<BR> + Sold me his ten-cent oil stocks, though he knew<BR> + It was a Kosher trick to take the tin<BR> + When I was such an easy thing to do;<BR> + For any centenarian can see<BR> + To ring a bull's-eye when he shoots at me.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XIX<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + A pardon if too much I chew the rag,<BR> + But say, it's getting rubbed in good and deep,<BR> + And I have reached the limit where I weep<BR> + As easy as a sentimental jag.<BR> + My soul is quite a worn and frazzled rag,<BR> + My life is damaged goods, my price is cheap,<BR> + And I am such a snap I dare not peep<BR> + Lest some should read the price-mark on my tag.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The more my sourballed murmur, since I've seen<BR> + A Sunday picnic car on Market Street,<BR> + Full of assorted sports, each with his queen—<BR> + And chewing pepsin on the forninst seat<BR> + Were Mame and Murphy, diked to suit the part,<BR> + And clinching fins in public, heart-to-heart.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XX<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Forget it? Well, just watch me try to shake<BR> + The memory of that four-bit Scheutzen Park,<BR> + Where Sunday picnics boil from dawn till dark<BR> + And you tie down the Flossie you can take,<BR> + If you don't mind man-handling and can make<BR> + A prize rough house to jolly up the lark,<BR> + To show the ladies you're the whole tan-bark,<BR> + And leave a blaze of fireworks in your wake.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + 'Twas there before the Rainbow Club that Mame<BR> + Bawled herself out as Murphy's finansay<BR> + And all the chronic glad hand-claspers came<BR> + To copper invites for the wedding day;<BR> + And when the jocund day threw up the sponge<BR> + Murphy was billed to take the fatal plunge.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XXI<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + At noon today Murphy and Mame were tied.<BR> + A gospel huckster did the referee,<BR> + And all the Drug Clerks Union loped to see<BR> + The queen of Minnie Street become a bride,<BR> + And that bad actor, Murphy, by her side,<BR> + Standing where Yours Despondent ought to be.<BR> + I went to hang a smile in front of me,<BR> + But weeps were in my glimmers when I tried.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + The pastor murmured, "Two and two make one,"<BR> + And slipped a sixteen K on Mamie's grab;<BR> + And when the game was tied and all was done<BR> + The guests shied footwear at the bridal cab,<BR> + And Murphy's little gilt-roofed brother Jim<BR> + Snickered, "She's left her happy home for him."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + XXII<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Still joy is rubbernecking on the street,<BR> + Still hikes the Mags' parade at five o'clock,<BR> + Still does the masher march around the block<BR> + Pining in vain some hothouse plant to meet;<BR> + Still does the rounder pull your leg to treat,<BR> + Where flows the whisky sour or russet bock,<BR> + And the store clothing dummies in a flock<BR> + Keep good and busy following their feet.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Rats! cut this out; for I'm a last year's champ;<BR> + Into the old bone orchard am I blowing,<BR> + So with the late lamented let me camp,<BR> + My walkers to the graveyard daisies toeing,<BR> + And shaking this too upish generation,<BR> + Pass checks through cigarette asphyxiation.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Epilogue<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + To just one girl I've tuned my sad bazoo,<BR> + Stringing my pipe-dream off as it occurred,<BR> + And as I've tipped the straight talk every word,<BR> + If you don't like it you know what to do.<BR> + Perhaps you think I've handed out to you<BR> + An idle jest, a touch-me-not, absurd<BR> + As any sky-blue-pink canary bird,<BR> + Billed for a record season at the Zoo.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + If that's your guess you'll have to guess again,<BR> + For thus I fizzled in a burst of glory,<BR> + And this rhythmatic side-show doth contain<BR> + The sum and substance of my hard-luck story,<BR> + Showing how Vanity is still on deck<BR> + And Humble Virtue gets it in the neck.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum, by Wallace Irwin + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM *** + +***** This file should be named 4756-h.htm or 4756-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/7/5/4756/ + +Produced by David A. 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