Poems for Pale People Part 7

I cannot keep from thinking Of poor Marie Antoinette, She lost her head completely, But this is what I'll get-- They'll knock the stuffin' out o' me Without the least regret.

I've just a few days left now Before I meet my fate, For every turkey gets the axe, The little and the great.

There never was a turkey born Who didn't fill a plate.

Only three days left now, Goodness, how time flies!

It brings a sadness to my heart And teardrops to my eyes.

Does every turkey feel that way Three days before he dies?

This is a very cruel world (I'm talking sober facts), For I was only raised to be The victim of an axe-- The b.u.t.t of all your silly jokes, And all your funny cracks.

And when you sit down Thursday How happy you will be, Every person gathered there Will eat enough for three.

I'll be the guest of honor 'Cause that dinner is on ME.

L'ENVOI.

I'm the ghost of that poor gobbler Who used to be so great, They took my poor, neglected bones And piled them on a plate.

Reader, shed a kindly tear For my unhappy fate.

This is the common lot of all Upon the world's great chart; We've got to leave a pile of bones-- The stupid and the smart.

Even when Napoleon died He left a Bonaparte.

We are merely puppets Moving on a string, And when we think that we are IT, The axe will fall--"Gezing!"

O, Grave, where is thy victory?

O, Death, where is thy sting?

IF I WERE CITY EDITOR.

(After Ben King, Dedicated to E. Jesse Conway.)

If I were City Editor And you should come to my cold desk and choke, And say, "Old man I'm actually dead broke."

I say, if I were City Editor, And you should come in deepest grief and woe And say, "Oh Lordy let me have the dough,"

I might arise with slow and solemn wink And lecture you upon the curse of drink.

If I were City Editor And you should come to my hotel and reel, Clasping my beer to quench the thirst you feel, I say if I were City Editor And you should come in trembling and in fear And even hint about licking up that beer, I'd hit you just one swat, and then, I guess I'd have to order one more bier.

TRANSCENDENTALISM.

What is transcendentalism?

Merely sentimentalism With a dash of egotism Somewhat mixed with mysticism.

Not at all like Socialism, Nor a bit like Atheism, Hinges not on pessimism, Treats of man's asceticism, Quite opposes anarchism.

Can't you name another "Ism?"

Yes, it's transcendentalism.

THE EPIC OF THE HOG.

(Man's Inhumanity to Hogs Makes Countless Thousands Squeal.)

I lived upon a little farm, A happy hog was I, I never dreamed of any harm Nor ever thought to die.

All day I wallowed in the mud, And ate the choicest slops.

I watched the brindles chew their cud-- The farmer tend his crops.

Upon the hottest days I'd go And flounder in the river-- I thought that hogs might come and go, But I would live forever.

Then finally I waxed so fat That I could hardly walk, And then the farmers gather 'round And all began to talk.

I couldn't understand a word, All I did was grunt; You see that's all a hog can do-- It is his only stunt.

But finally they took me out And put me on a train.

I really couldn't move about And squealed with might and main.

I grunted, grunted as I flew And moved in vain endeavor, But even then I thought it true That I would live forever.

And so we came to Packingtown Where there were hogs galore, I never saw so many hogs In all my life before.

Then we had to shoot the chutes And climb a flight of stairs, We never had a chance to stop Or time to say our prayers.

Loud-squealing hogs above, below They formed a seething river, For men may come and men may go But hogs go on forever.

And then I saw an iron wheel Which stood alone in state, And then I heard an awful squeal-- A hog had met his fate.

A devilish chain upon the wheel Had seized him by the leg; It was no use to kick and squeal, It was no use to beg.

I longed in deepest grief and woe To leave that br.i.m.m.i.n.g river; If once into that room you go Your fate is sealed forever.

Farewell, Farewell, a long farewell, Around the room I spin, And then a fellow with a knife Smites me below the chin.

L'Envoi.

Dear reader I was just a hog, But O it's awful hard To die disgraced, and then to be-- Turned into "Pure Leaf Lard."