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diff --git a/4756.txt b/4756.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..902e8ac --- /dev/null +++ b/4756.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1131 @@ +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: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM *** + + + + +Produced by David A. Schwan. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + +The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum + + +by + +Wallace Irwin + + + + With an Introduction by + Gelett Burgess + + + + Showing how Vanity is still on Deck, + & humble Virtue gets it in the Neck! + + + + "A Leaden Heart I wear since she forsook me." + + + + +The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum + + + +Introduction + + + + "Tell me, ye muses, what hath former ages + Now left succeeding times to play upon, + And what remains unthought on by those sages + Where a new muse may try her pinion?" + +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. + +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.[*] + + +[*] Note, for instance, the potential mood used indicatively in the +current colloquial, "Wouldn't that jar you!" + + +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. + +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: + + "Fellows of outside and mere bark!" + +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: + + "My most neat and cunning orator, whose tongue is quicksilver;" + +and, for an analogy similar, though elaborate, compare lines 5-8 in +Sonnet XI. In Beaumont and Fletcher's Philaster, + + "A pernicious petticoat prince" + +is as close to "Mame's dress-suit belle" of No. VII as modern costume +allows, and + + "No, you scarab!" + +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-- + + "Fate is a spaniel; we cannot beat it from us!" + +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: + + "These are bug's words!" + +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. + +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: + + "My syncopated con-talk no avail." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 + + "Cough up loops of kindergarten chin?" + +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. + +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! + +Gelett Burgess. + +San Francisco, Nov. 1, 1901 + + + + + + +An Inside Con to Refined Guys + + + Let me down easy, reader, say! + Don't run the bluff that you are on, + Or proudly scoff at every toff + Who rattles off a rag-time con. + + Get next to how the French Villon, + Before Jack Hangman yanked him high, + Quilled slangy guff and Frenchy stuff + And kicked up rough the same as I. + + And Byron, Herrick, Burns, forby, + Got gay with Erato, much the same + As I now do to show to you + The way into the Hall of Fame. + + + + +Prologue + + + Wouldn't it jar you, wouldn't it make you sore + To see the poet, when the goods play out, + Crawl off of poor old Pegasus and tout + His skate to two-step sonnets off galore? + Then, when the plug, a dead one, can no more + Shake rag-time than a biscuit, right about + The poem-butcher turns with gleeful shout + And sends a batch of sonnets to the store. + + The sonnet is a very easy mark, + A James P. Dandy as a carry-all + For brain-fag wrecks who want to keep it dark + Just why their crop of thinks is running small. + On the low down, dear Maine, my looty loo, + That's why I've cooked this batch of rhymes for you. + + + + I + + + Say, will she treat me white, or throw me down, + Give me the glassy glare, or welcome hand, + Shovel me dirt, or treat me on the grand, + Knife me, or make me think I own the town? + Will she be on the level, do me brown, + Or will she jolt me lightly on the sand, + Leaving poor Willie froze to beat the band, + Limp as your grandma's Mother Hubbard gown? + + I do not know, nor do I give a whoop, + But this I know: if she is so inclined + She can come play with me on our back stoop, + Even in office hours, I do not mind-- + In fact I know I'm nice and good and ready + To get an option on her as my steady. + + + + II + + + On the dead level I am sore of heart, + For nifty Mame has frosted me complete, + Since ten o'clock, G. M., when on the street + I saw my lightning finish from the start. + O goo-goo eye, how glassy gazed thou art + To freeze my spinach solid when we meet, + And keep thy Willie on the anxious seat + Like a bum Dago on an apple cart! + + Is it because my pants fit much too soon, + Or that my hand-me-down is out of style, + That thou dost turn me under when I spoon, + Nor hand me hothouse beauties with a smile? + If that's the case, next week I'll scorch the line + Clad in a shell I'll buy of Cohenstein. + + + + III + + + As follows is the make-up I shall buy, + Next week, when from the boss I pull my pay:-- + A white and yellow zig-zag cutaway, + A sunset-colored vest and purple tie, + A shirt for vaudeville and something fly + In gunboat shoes and half-hose on the gay. + I'll get some green shoe-laces, by the way, + And a straw lid to set 'em stepping high. + + Then shall I shine and be the great main squeeze, + The warm gazook, the only on the bunch, + The Oklahoma wonder, the whole cheese, + The baby with the Honolulu hunch-- + That will bring Mame to time--I should say yes! + Ain't my dough good as Murphy's? Well, I guess! + + + + IV + + + O fate, thou art a lobster, but not dead! + Silently dost thou grab, e'en as the cop + Nabs the poor hobo, sneaking from a shop + With some rich geezer's tile upon his head. + By thy fake propositions are we led + To get quite chesty, when it's buff! kerflop!! + We take a tumble and the cog-wheels stop, + Leaving the patient seeing stars in bed. + + So was I swatted, for I could not draw + My last week's pay. I got the dinky dink. + No more I see the husk in dreams I saw, + And Mame is mine some more, I do not think. + I know my rival, and it makes me sore-- + 'Tis Murphy, night clerk in McCann's drug store. + + + + V + + + Last night--ah, yesternight--I flagged my queen + Steering for Grunsky's ice-cream joint full sail! + I up and braced her, breezy as a gale, + And she was the all-rightest ever seen. + Just then Brick Murphy butted in between, + Rushing my funny song-and-dance to jail, + My syncopated con-talk no avail, + For Murphy was the only nectarine. + + This is a sample of the hand I get + When I am playing more than solitaire, + Showing how I become the slowest yet + When it's a case of razors in the air, + And competition knocks me off creation + Like a gin-fountain smashed by Carrie Nation. + + + + VI + + + See how that Murphy cake-walks in his pride, + That brick-topped Murphy, fourteen-dollar jay; + You'd think he'd leased the sidewalk by the way + He takes up half a yard on either side! + I'm wise his diamond ring's a cut-glass snide, + His overcoat is rented by the day, + But still no kick is coming yet from Mae + When Murphy cuts the cake so very wide. + + Rubber, thou scab! Don't throw on so much spaniel! + Say, are there any more at home like you? + You're not the only lion after Daniel, + You're not the only oyster in the stew. + Get next, you pawn-shop sport! Come oft the fence + Before I make you look like thirty cents! + + + + VII + + + Mayhap you think I cinched my little job + When I made meat of Mamie's dress-suit belle. + If that's your hunch you don't know how the swell + Can put it on the plain, unfinished slob + Who lacks the kiss-me war paint of the snob + And can't make good inside a giddy shell; + Wherefore the reason I am fain to tell + The slump that caused me this melodious sob. + + For when I pushed Brick Murphy to the rope + Mame manned the ambulance and dragged him in, + Massaged his lamps with fragrant drug store dope + And coughed up loops of kindergarten chin; + She sprang a come back, piped for the patrol, + Then threw a glance that tommyhawked my soul. + + + + VIII + + + I sometimes think that I am not so good, + That there are foxier, warmer babes than I, + That Fate has given me the calm go-by + And my long suit is sawing mother's wood. + Then would I duck from under if I could, + Catch the hog special on the jump, and fly + To some Goat Island planned by destiny + For dubs and has-beens and that solemn brood. + + But spite of bug-wheels in my cocoa tree, + The trade in lager beer is still a-humming, + A schooner can be purchased for a V + Or even grafted if you're fierce at bumming. + My finish then less clearly do I see, + For lo! I have another think a-coming. + + + + IX + + + Last night I tumbled off the water cart-- + It was a peacherino of a drunk; + I put the cocktail market on the punk + And tore up all the sidewalks from the start. + The package that I carried was a tart + That beat Vesuvius out for sizz and spunk, + And when they put me in my little bunk + You couldn't tell my jag and me apart. + + Oh! would I were the ice man for a space, + Then might I cool this red-hot cocoanut, + Corral the jim-jam bugs that madly race + Around the eaves that from my forehead jut-- + Or will a carpenter please come instead + And build a picket fence around my head? + + + + X + + + As one who with his landlord stands deuce high + And blocks his board bill off with I O U's, + Touching the barkeep lightly for his booze, + Sidestepping when a creditor goes by, + Soaking his mother's watch-chain on the sly, + Haply his ticker, too, haply his shoes, + Till Mr. Johnson comes to turn him loose + And lift the mortgage from that poor cheap guy; + + So am I now small change in Mamie's scorn, + A microbe's egg, or two-bits in a fog, + A first cornet that cannot toot a horn, + A Waterbury watch that's slipped a cog; + For when her make-up's twisted to a frown, + What can I but go 'way back and sit down? + + + + XI + + + O scaly Mame to give me such a deal, + To hand me such a bunch when I was true! + You played me double and you knew it, too, + Nor cared a wad of gum how I would feel. + Can you not see that Murphy's handy spiel + Is cheap balloon juice of a Blarney brew, + A phonograph where all he has to do + Is give the crank a twist and let 'er reel? + + Nay, love has put your optics on the bum, + To you are Murphy's gold bricks all O. K.; + His talks go down however rank they come, + For he has got you going, fairy fay. + Ah, well! In that I'm in the box with you, + For love has got poor Willie groggy, too. + + + + XII + + + Life is a combination hard to buck, + A proposition difficult to beat, + E'en though you get there Zaza with both feet, + In forty flickers, it's the same hard luck, + And you are up against it nip and tuck, + Shanghaied without a steady place to eat, + Guyed by the very copper on your beat + Who lays to jug you when you run amuck. + + O Life! you give Yours Truly quite a pain. + On the T square I do not like your style; + For you are playing favorites again + And you have got me handicapped a mile. + Avaunt, false Life, with all your pride and pelf: + Go take a running jump and chase yourself! + + + + XIII + + + If I were smooth as eels and slick as soap, + A baked-wind expert, jolly with my clack, + Gally enough to ask my money back + Before the steerer feeds me knock-out dope, + Still might I throw a duck-fit in my hope + That I possessed a headpiece like a tack + To get my Mamie in my private sack + Ere she could flag some Handsome Hank and slope. + + What ho! she bumps! My wish avails me not, + My work is coarse and Mame is onto me; + So am I never Johnny-on-the-spot + When any wooden Siwash ought to be. + Thus I get busy working up a grouch + Whenever heartless Mame harpoons me--ouch! + + + + XIV + + + O mommer! wasn't Mame a looty toot + Last night when at the Rainbow Social Club + She did the bunny hug with every scrub + From Hogan's Alley to the Dutchman's Boot, + While little Willie, like a plug-eared mute, + Papered the wall and helped absorb the grub, + Played nest-egg with the benches like a dub + When hot society was easy fruit! + + Am I a turnip? On the strict Q. T., + When do my Trilbys get so ossified? + Why am I minus when it's up to me + To brace my Paris Pansy for a glide? + Once more my hoodoo's thrown the game and scored + A flock of zeros on my tally-board. + + + + XV + + + Nixie! I'm not canned chicken till I'm cooked, + And hope still rooms in this pneumatic chest, + While something's doing underneath my vest + That makes me think I'm squiffier than I looked. + Mayhap Love knew my class when I was booked + As one shade speedier than second best + To knock the previous records galley west, + While short-end suckers on my bait were hooked. + + Mayhap--I give it up--but this I know: + When I saw Mamie on the line today + She turned her happy searchlights on me so, + And grinned so like a living picture--say, + If a real lady threw you such a chunk, + Could n't she pack her Raglan in your trunk? + + + + XVI + + + Oh, for a fist to push a fancy quill! + A Lover's Handy Letter Writer, too, + To help me polish off this billy doo + So it can jolly Mame and make a kill, + Coax her to think that I'm no gilded pill, + But rather the unadulterated goo. + Below I give a sample of the brew + I've manufactured in my thinking mill: + + "Gum Drop:--Your tanglefoot has got my game, + I'm stuck so tight you cannot shake your catch; + It's cruelty to insects--honest, Mame,-- + So won't you join me in a tie-up match? + If you'll talk business I'm your lemon pie. + Please answer and relieve + + An Anxious Guy." + + + + XVII + + + Woman, you are indeed a false alarm; + You offer trips to heaven at tourist's rates + And publish fairy tales about the dates + You're going to keep (not meaning any harm), + Then get some poor old Rube fresh from the farm, + As graceful as a kangaroo on skates, + Trying to transfer at the Pearly Gates-- + For instance, note this jolt that smashed the charm:-- + + "P.S.--You are all right, but you won't do. + You may be up a hundred in the shade, + But there are cripples livelier than you, + And my man Murphy's strictly union-made. + You are a bargain, but it seems a shame + That you should drink so much. + Yours truly, + Mame." + + + + XVIII + + + Last night I dreamed a passing dotty dream-- + I thought the cards were coming all my way, + That I could shut and open things all day + While Mame and I were getting thick as cream, + And starred as an amalgamated team + In a cigar-box flat across the bay-- + Just then the alarm clock blew to pieces. Say, + Wouldn't that jam you? I should rather scream. + + Sleep, like a bunco artist, rubbed it in, + Sold me his ten-cent oil stocks, though he knew + It was a Kosher trick to take the tin + When I was such an easy thing to do; + For any centenarian can see + To ring a bull's-eye when he shoots at me. + + + + XIX + + + A pardon if too much I chew the rag, + But say, it's getting rubbed in good and deep, + And I have reached the limit where I weep + As easy as a sentimental jag. + My soul is quite a worn and frazzled rag, + My life is damaged goods, my price is cheap, + And I am such a snap I dare not peep + Lest some should read the price-mark on my tag. + + The more my sourballed murmur, since I've seen + A Sunday picnic car on Market Street, + Full of assorted sports, each with his queen-- + And chewing pepsin on the forninst seat + Were Mame and Murphy, diked to suit the part, + And clinching fins in public, heart-to-heart. + + + + XX + + + Forget it? Well, just watch me try to shake + The memory of that four-bit Scheutzen Park, + Where Sunday picnics boil from dawn till dark + And you tie down the Flossie you can take, + If you don't mind man-handling and can make + A prize rough house to jolly up the lark, + To show the ladies you're the whole tan-bark, + And leave a blaze of fireworks in your wake. + + 'Twas there before the Rainbow Club that Mame + Bawled herself out as Murphy's finansay + And all the chronic glad hand-claspers came + To copper invites for the wedding day; + And when the jocund day threw up the sponge + Murphy was billed to take the fatal plunge. + + + + XXI + + + At noon today Murphy and Mame were tied. + A gospel huckster did the referee, + And all the Drug Clerks Union loped to see + The queen of Minnie Street become a bride, + And that bad actor, Murphy, by her side, + Standing where Yours Despondent ought to be. + I went to hang a smile in front of me, + But weeps were in my glimmers when I tried. + + The pastor murmured, "Two and two make one," + And slipped a sixteen K on Mamie's grab; + And when the game was tied and all was done + The guests shied footwear at the bridal cab, + And Murphy's little gilt-roofed brother Jim + Snickered, "She's left her happy home for him." + + + + XXII + + + Still joy is rubbernecking on the street, + Still hikes the Mags' parade at five o'clock, + Still does the masher march around the block + Pining in vain some hothouse plant to meet; + Still does the rounder pull your leg to treat, + Where flows the whisky sour or russet bock, + And the store clothing dummies in a flock + Keep good and busy following their feet. + + Rats! cut this out; for I'm a last year's champ; + Into the old bone orchard am I blowing, + So with the late lamented let me camp, + My walkers to the graveyard daisies toeing, + And shaking this too upish generation, + Pass checks through cigarette asphyxiation. + + + + Epilogue + + + To just one girl I've tuned my sad bazoo, + Stringing my pipe-dream off as it occurred, + And as I've tipped the straight talk every word, + If you don't like it you know what to do. + Perhaps you think I've handed out to you + An idle jest, a touch-me-not, absurd + As any sky-blue-pink canary bird, + Billed for a record season at the Zoo. + + If that's your guess you'll have to guess again, + For thus I fizzled in a burst of glory, + And this rhythmatic side-show doth contain + The sum and substance of my hard-luck story, + Showing how Vanity is still on deck + And Humble Virtue gets it in the neck. + + + + + + + + + + +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.txt or 4756.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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