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51 
 
LUBRICATIONS 
 
 By 
 W. G. (BILL) LONG 
 
 Published by 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 1922 
 
y \ 
 
 Copyrighted 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 1922 
 
 HAMMOND PRESS 
 
 ^. B. CONKEY COMPANY 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 APR 24 1922 
 0)G!.A659760 
 
W. G. (bill) long 
 
THEY ARE FOR YOU 
 
 VOU who have climbed to the top 
 
 When the derrick was covered with snow; 
 
 You who have made the drill drop 
 In the sun-set's evening glow. 
 
 You who have sweated and wrought 
 
 From Pensy's ice-laden hills. 
 To the sun-set's flowery spot 
 
 Through Illinois ague and chills. 
 
 Reached for the magic wealth. 
 
 Vintage of desperate years; 
 Sought it at night by stealth 
 
 Embittered by unshed tears. 
 
 I sing these songs for you : 
 
 You, whose flesh shows the brand; 
 To you who know they are true, 
 
 God knows that you'll understand. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 THE OIL MAN'S GREED 
 
 TJJ7E believe in this life. We believe that nature intended 
 " all men to be equal according to his worthy desires. 
 
 We believe in making the best of the present, forgetting 
 the bad of the past, striving earnestly for the future 
 betterment of all. 
 
 We believe when the wheel of fortune is turned, that the 
 best servant will be the best master; the mistakes we 
 have made in the past will be the guiding buoy of the 
 coming years. True equality is the equality of all. 
 
 We believe to err is human, but to make the same mis- 
 take twice is a crime. The dusters and the gushers 
 are but the crucible that separates the dross from the 
 pure gold of life. 
 
 We believe that when we die our bodies return to dust 
 whence the caldron nature uses it to bring forth the 
 pink-hearted rose and the blushing fruit. 
 
 We believe in the immortal soul, it is ours to burnish, 
 brighten and glorify, or to shrivel, blacken and damn. 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 'T'HE National Petroleum News, having 
 used a great number of these "Rhymes" 
 in their publication, I hereby acknowledge 
 my appreciation of the good fellowship of 
 Warren C. Piatt, its editor, who has kindly 
 allowed their use in this book. 
 
 The writer has taken liberties with the 
 following authors: Rudyard Kipling; 
 Robert Service; Wordsworth; Edgar A. 
 Guest; and others, for which he apolo- 
 gizes. 
 
 The Author. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Soliloquy of Oil 11 
 
 They Are There 13 
 
 The Driller 15 
 
 Its Fascination 16 
 
 Abandoned 17 
 
 At Parker on the Hill 18 
 
 The Song of the Derelict 20 
 
 I'm a Wise Guy 22 
 
 Randlet, Oklahoma (A Letter) 23 
 
 A Producer's Dream in Tulsa 24 
 
 The Tooley 25 
 
 The Evolution of the Roustabout 27 
 
 The Truth 30 
 
 The Leaser's Argument 31 
 
 More Pipe Lines 32 
 
 When It's All Off 33 
 
 To Gushing 26 
 
 Irish Mary 34 
 
 The Ghost of Barney Tholoco 36 
 
 Tommy Atkins 39 
 
 The Oil Country Tommy Atkins 41 
 
 Alas, Poor Paden 42 
 
 The Oil Country Vampire 44 
 
 The Analyzing Oil Editor 45 
 
 East or West It Is the Same. 46 
 
 The Old Man's Lament 47 
 
 7 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 O You Kitty! 49 
 
 The Law of the Oil Field 50 
 
 The Farmer's Sand 52 
 
 Reminiscent 53 
 
 The Dreamer 54 
 
 Tell Them Again to Me 55 
 
 Genius 57 
 
 Lament to Bacchus 58. 
 
 Farewell, Doctor Booze 59 
 
 Texas 60 
 
 Requiem to the Power That Was 62 
 
 The Investigating Spirit of Congress 62 
 
 My Flag 64 
 
 Just Tired 65 
 
 His Oil Country' Shack 66 
 
 Der Tag 67 
 
 The Devil's Soliloquy on the Kaiser 68 
 
 1909 69 
 
 1914 70 
 
 Our Flag 29 
 
 Give and You Shall Receive 72 
 
 To James Whitcomb Riley 72 
 
 May 30, 1908 74 
 
 The Pants That Mother Made 75 
 
 Bill 78 
 
 If You Were Mine 79 
 
 The Girl in Dixie 80 
 
 The Cry of the Tame 51 
 
 Memories of a Valentine 81 
 
 When Mother's Gone 82 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thanksgiving Thought 63 
 
 At Fifty-five 83 
 
 A Warning to Colored Brothers 84 
 
 The Wail of the Fat Man 71 
 
 Who's to Blame? 85 
 
 Going Home 86 
 
 The Death of Mark Twain 87 
 
 Thanksgiving 88 
 
 Friendship 88 
 
 Canandaigua in a Frenzy 89 
 
 Why Not? 89 
 
 When I Am Fifty and You Are Five 90 
 
 Pre-Nuptial Shower 91 
 
 Violets 91 
 
 Wouldn't This Be a Dream? 92 
 
 The Home on the River Hill 93 
 
 Father's Got a Job 94 
 
 Spring Troubles 95 
 
 Hallowe'en 96 
 
 Laddie 97 
 
 Spring 98 
 
 Our Day Dreams 98 
 
 All His Labors Are Vain 99 
 
 Our Good Friend $$$$$ 100 
 
 The Old Bucket Shop 101 
 
 If I Should Die Tonight 102 
 
 Dem Guys Next Door 103 
 
 When the Ice is in the Rye 103 
 
 Optimistic Bill 105 
 
 The Grafter 107 
 
 To My Book 107 
 
 The Apology 108 
 
I 
 
 THE SOLILOQUY OF OIL 
 
 HAVE been buried in subterranean caverns for a mil- 
 lion years. What will the earth's axis do without 
 my lubrication? 
 
 A half a century ago I was liberated, bridled, saddled, 
 and made subservient to the will of man. My Liber- 
 ator's voice speaks from the exhausts of thousands 
 of engines, for from my storehouse comes their 
 power. 
 
 I am the lubricator of the wheels of commerce, the 
 bearer of human freight and grain is whirled across 
 a continent because I am in their journals. 
 
 I light the great cathedral with the waxen taper. The 
 poor and lowly, the great and affluent, use me to light 
 their pathway to knowledge. 
 
 I am the tireless servant of millions. I brighten up the 
 midnight darkness of the gloomy world, and illumi- 
 nate the home of the peasant and prince. Without 
 me the air would have remained unconquered. I am 
 the power that drives the brain child of Wright 
 Brothers through eternal space. 
 
 It is I that tears the lightning from the heavens and makes 
 it a plaything for the child. I plow the unbroken 
 fields and harvest the golden grain. My body is laid 
 upon the streets of magnificent cities, happy in feel- 
 ing the footsteps of children, and I laugh at the great 
 burdens in the despatch of business. I am the builder 
 of empires and the destroyer of kings. I move the 
 death dealing instruments of war. I grease the pas- 
 sage of the great ship in her initial plunge on the 
 breast of the ocean. Without me the world would 
 be helpless. 
 
 11 
 
12 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 I — — 
 
 I am the soul of printers' ink and a million readers hear 
 me speak. I am the builder of cities, my derricks 
 stab the new world's sky, and my golden shafts kiss 
 the noon-day sun. Man brought me forth and I 
 mastered him. I make him bow and cringe and at 
 night pray to my golden calf. In man's quest for me 
 he has been made a pauper. I pick the beggar up 
 and set him in a palace. I am his menial. I clean 
 his clothes and polish his floors. 
 
 My breath blazes forth in the kitchen, to cook his food. 
 He warms his feet by my flickering flame in his par- 
 lor. Yon graceful car, so strong and beautiful, has 
 concealed within its body a part of me. I am its 
 heart and through my pulsations the Master pro- 
 duces strength, speed and efliciency. 
 
 I furnish the disc that brings the God-hewn voice 
 through its throat of brass that time will not destroy. 
 Man cannot live without me. I bring life, its joys 
 and its sorrows. I grease the channel of man's en- 
 trance into the world; I seal his casket when he 
 leaves. To think that I, with all my power, comfort 
 and efficiency lay millions of years waiting for the 
 hand of the dreamer. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 13 
 
 THEY ARE THERE 
 
 TF I were looking for soldiers with good red blood in 
 their veins; 
 
 If I were hunting for manhood, men careless of scars 
 and pains; 
 
 If I were looking for Nobles, — men that you cannot de- 
 feat; 
 
 I would never go to the city to hunt its stifled street. 
 
 If I were hunting a soldier for a battle, or say, for this life, 
 
 I would hike me off to the oil field, get men who are used 
 to strife; 
 
 Men who climb the derrick when it staggers from spud- 
 ding line 
 
 Like a careening ship in a typhoon or swaying like a 
 forest pine. 
 
 There I would find my model, one who was quick to feel 
 That this whole life is a warfare, one with nerves of steel; 
 One that can build a city, one that can drill a well, 
 For water is all important when cannons belch forth their 
 hell. 
 
 Men who are true to their friendship, who love our own 
 green sod; 
 
 Men who bend knees to no one but women, her home 
 and their God. 
 
 If I were looking for true men, men who fear not the moil, 
 
 I would leave city and village and go where they're drill- 
 ing for oil. 
 
 These are soldiers of fortune, men that establish their 
 
 fame 
 Sucking the oil from earth's bosom; building in honor, 
 
 not shame. 
 Dragging from the old world's store-house the fluid of 
 
 amber gold, 
 
14 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 Made after God's own image, moulded in God's own 
 mould. 
 
 This is the place to find them; some will curse as they 
 toil, 
 
 Yet tenderly care for a brother smoothing his troubles 
 like oil. 
 
 With hands that are blistered and swollen gently caress- 
 ing the face 
 
 Of the injured, broken brother — ^you will find him in no 
 other place. 
 
 A PRODUCER'S DREAM IN TULSA 
 
 TTE lay upon his Ostermoor; the stars winked overhead. 
 
 He heard his Bessemer engine back fire from its shed; 
 He saw the golden, sparkling oil tlow from his leading line. 
 He smiled as Angels whispered (it seemed almost divine). 
 He saw his tanks all laden with one dollar five cent oil. 
 And the pipe line people say to him, "Let us pay you for 
 
 your toil." 
 He saw the market going up, his wells increased his gold, 
 The pipe lines were sorry that he had never sold. 
 They did not wake him from his dreams, it was so sweet 
 
 and real 
 They let him have those fragrant flowers, without the 
 
 stab of steel. 
 So they let him smile in happiness, for to him it was so 
 
 sweet 
 They took a knife and cut his throat while he was fast 
 
 asleep. 
 
 Moral: There is no difference between cutting a 
 man's throat and letting the sunshine into his entrails, 
 than to cut his meal ticket off and let the sun shine 
 through them. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 
 
 THE DRILLER 
 
 VES! he wore the old blue overalls, emblem of his 
 trade; 
 
 His hands were hard and calloused, his clear eyes una- 
 fraid. 
 
 Was a pioneer at Bradford — felled the hemlock and the 
 pine 
 
 To build the hemlock cities all along the ancient line. 
 
 He wrests the golden fluid from earth's maternal breast. 
 
 Builds homes for the producers, by his patient toil and 
 zest. 
 
 As they pioneered the "gold-fields" back in forty-nine. 
 So he opened up the oil-fields, on the five and forty line. 
 He is found at work in Canada 'mid winter's fiendish blast. 
 Is ready to climb to the pinnacle, be it a derrick or a mast; 
 No matter if ice-laden, no odds if night or day. 
 He laughs at threatened dangers, the drill he drives to the 
 pay. 
 
 He never plays to the galleries, he is wise and sane, 
 A fine, big-hearted fellow; sometimes a little profane. 
 Stationed out in the wilderness, near to nature's heart. 
 Working with brain and muscle, wisely playing his part: 
 It may be the crowded oil fields, or possibly alone, 
 He is ever true to duty, ever thinking of home. 
 
 Don't listen to the stories told on this man of toil, 
 Don't heed the forked tongue gossips, of this pioneer in 
 
 oil. 
 For he is the old farm product, the kind that is ever first 
 To blaze the trail thro' forests, 'mid its fever and its 
 
 thirst ; 
 The first to touch with magic wand, and bring the golden 
 
 flow; 
 He's the best old scout on God's green earth — I'm a driller 
 
 myself and I know. 
 
16 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 ITS FASCINATION 
 
 TTOW I hated it like Hell in the beginning 
 "As on tower at midnight I'd tramp; 
 The smell of the hemlock and manila, 
 
 The smoke of the old derrick lamp 
 Made me wish for the life that never knew harness 
 
 And the peaceful old home where the whippoorwili 
 calls 
 Away from the oil-field with all its mad pleasures, 
 
 But the men of the oil-field, I am stuck on them all. 
 
 I remember at Richburg when I was a novice 
 
 At pointing the augers that drill the oil well; 
 My back was as stiff as if cased in a bodice, 
 
 And, Oh! how I wished the whole country in Hell. 
 The alarm clock rang out the hour of midnight. 
 
 As I grabbed my "old clothes" to answer its call; 
 Picked up the "sav-can" to tramp thro' the snow drifts — 
 
 It was Hell to get used to, but I now love it all. 
 
 There is no place on earth that I love and cherish 
 
 As the fields where the derricks pierce the blue sky; 
 No place on earth where my evil thoughts perish. 
 
 As when I hear the screech of the beam's wailing cry. 
 Here's hoping that I shall never retire 
 
 To the city or farm away from its strife; 
 There is nothing on earth that will quench my desire, 
 
 If the oil-fields keep calling me back to its life. 
 
 Go curse it — you craven, you who are beat; 
 
 Go back to the country, the town and its moil! 
 She scorns your discomfort, gloats your defeat. 
 
 To the strong and courageous she gives up her oil. 
 The faint-hearted critter she claws to the bone. 
 
 She's as cruel as Hell, and as bitter as gall; 
 She'll embrace but the strong and give them a home — 
 
 It's the life of the strong man, and I love it all. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 17 
 
 ABANDONED 
 
 'T'HE beam is standing on its end; 
 
 The derrick's warped and bent, 
 The engine has no power to send, 
 
 For the steam in the boiler's spent. 
 The wind howls thro' the loosened girt. 
 
 The band wheel's rent and drawn; 
 The bull-wheel's grooves are filled with dirt, 
 
 The bull rope frayed and worn. 
 The engine's still, and red with dust. 
 
 The crown wheel's ceased to scream; 
 The drillers gone and left their trust, 
 
 Just another shattered dream. 
 
 Yet I saw that rig when all was bright. 
 
 And the driller stood at the wheel; 
 And thro' the stillness of the night 
 
 I heard the sand-sheave squeal. 
 No sweeter music could one hear. 
 
 No golden tinted sky 
 Was half so bright, or half so dear. 
 
 As the flare of lamps, the wheel's wild cry. 
 It brought sweet rest to the tired mind. 
 
 It sang me to sleep with its screech; 
 It renewed fond hopes that were left behind, 
 
 And brought them within my reach. 
 
 Now darkness deep, and silence drear 
 
 Surrounds that spire of hope; 
 No more we'll see a ghostly light, or hear 
 
 The creak of the driller's rope. 
 We played the hand dealt from the pack. 
 
 Above board and on the square; 
 We followed the old and beaten track. 
 
 With the gamblers' reckless air; 
 We washed the slush for its hidden sign. 
 
 While our hopes were running high. 
 We applied the glass, on the oozing slime 
 
 In vain, for the sand was dry. 
 
 2— April 1922 
 
18 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 AT PARKER ON THE HILL 
 
 A DRILLER from Pennsylvania lay dying in Illinois, 
 The only hands to care for him were the hard hands 
 of the boj^s; 
 A tooley knelt beside him to hear what he might say, 
 And carry his last message to his friends in old P-a. 
 The dying driller muttered as he raised his palsied hand: 
 "I never more shall see my own, my distant native land; 
 Take a message as a token (and his eyes began to fill). 
 To my birthplace up at Parker, at Parker on the hill. 
 
 Just tell those ancient knockers that their prophecy's not 
 
 true, 
 Although I'm dying in Illinois without a single sou — 
 That the hangman did not get me, to hang me on the rack 
 And I'll haunt those old-time gossips, because I'm coming 
 
 back. 
 Though I've lied like hell to farmers, and drank their 
 
 bitter Jav — 
 Ate their punk and side-meat and their Butler county sav; 
 I never drank the moonshine from Virginia's hidden still, 
 Because I came from Parker, from Parker on the hill. 
 
 It has been a hellish battle, and not always on the square, 
 
 For I was always handicapped, was kicked at everywhere. 
 
 I have played the cards life dealt me, with their joy or 
 with their pain; 
 
 Still I never struck the fallen foe nor stole his hard- 
 earned gain. 
 
 But have moiled with hands all blistered, seeking hidden 
 
 wealth. 
 Yet I never used vile methods or went at night, by 
 
 stealth. 
 I have used an honest yardstick, the measure'd always 
 
 fill— 
 For I was born at Parker, at Parker on the hill. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 19 
 
 So take this message back to them and tell them how I 
 
 died, — 
 Be silent on my wayward ways, don't tell them how I've 
 
 hed. 
 Tell them that no Angels came a-fluttering on the wing. 
 And that I thought of friendly ones, left off the gossip's 
 
 sting. 
 Just say that I forgave them. . . . (My God, but the 
 
 world is cold!) 
 And tell them how I've labored, garnering the sheaves of 
 
 gold; 
 Say how I made the anvil ring, or drove the mighty drill. 
 For I was born at Parker, at Parker on the hill. 
 
 His voice was growing husky . . . his eyes a ghastly 
 
 stare . . . 
 The oil lamp in the "Rag-house" winked out a ghostly 
 
 glare; 
 In fancy once again he saw that kind old mother's face 
 Across the spectered chasm — out in eternal space. 
 The death sweat stood out on his brow, he called that 
 
 precious name . . . 
 Coming, mother . . . coming . . . hallowed be thy 
 
 name. 
 The hands that turned the temper-screw, lay cold, and 
 
 white and still — 
 The driller's spirit was at rest — at Parker on the hill. 
 
20 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 THE SONG OF THE DERELICT 
 
 T'M one of the "Oil Country Brotherhood," I'm an old- 
 time pioneer; 
 
 I was one of the first— Oh, God, how I've cursed the oil- 
 fields ! but still I'm here. 
 
 I've sweated a-thirst in its summer heat; I've frozen and 
 starved in its toil; 
 
 I've followed my dreams by its thousand streams, slaved 
 and worked for its oil. 
 
 Look at my eyes, they've been burned twice; look, two 
 
 fingers are gone; 
 And the gruesome scar on my left cheek is where the 
 
 spudding shoe cleft the bone. 
 Each one a brand of this devilish land, where I've played 
 
 and lost the game; 
 A broken wreck with a craze for "Booze" without a cent 
 
 to my name. 
 
 This drilling is only a gamble, the worst is as bad as the 
 
 best; 
 I was hooked up right and might have come out, right on 
 
 top with the rest; 
 With Crawford, McGrew and McDonald — oh, God, but 
 
 it's hell to think 
 Of the coin of the realm I've squandered, on cards and 
 
 women and drink. 
 
 In the early days we were lonely, we hunted and just 
 
 laid around. 
 And dreamed in our lonely shanty of the oil that lay under 
 
 the ground. 
 We drank the mountain stilled whiskey, in the shade I've 
 
 slept on the ground 
 Close to the bee tree in Wetzel, near where the best well 
 was found. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 21 
 
 Of the Parker days with their sin and their blaze, and the 
 
 town all open wide! 
 (If God moulded me in his image, I've sure got the devil 
 
 inside) 
 For we were plumb mad both the good and the bad, yet I 
 
 swear it's the truth I tell — 
 There is no spot on earth in the same length of time, has 
 
 hustled more souls to hell. 
 
 At Sistersville money was dirt, so easy to get and to spend. 
 I got stuck on a chambermaid, but she shook me in the 
 
 end; 
 That made me a bum and for over a year I never drew 
 
 sober breath, 
 'Till I found myself in a bug-house ward, with a lease 
 
 that's bounded by death. 
 
 Thirty years in the oil-fields poring over its maps. 
 Sometimes eating a la carte, sometimes dining on scraps. 
 Bathed in the amber fluid, in the winter's fiendish cold — 
 Thirty years in the oil-field . . . thirty years . . . 
 and I'm old! 
 
 Old and battered. No matter . . . there's booze in the 
 
 bottle still. 
 I'll hitch up my span of trotters, drive them down to the 
 
 'ville. 
 Tonight I am fearfully lonesome . . . I'll just lay 
 
 down on this bed . . . 
 I'll go down tomorrow . . . tomorrow . . . shoot 
 
 the "Pea" this stack goes on the red. 
 
 . . . Come Bill, turn your wheel quick . . . my 
 
 auto awaits in the court . . . 
 . . . I'll play you this stack of "Blue Ones," just to 
 
 show you I'm a sport . . . 
 . . . How many tanks did she make, Bill . . . 
 
 come on and play out the game . . . 
 . . . Dear God, up in heaven . . . What! you 
 
 here, Kit? . . . Hallowed be thy name . . . 
 
22 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 And this was the song of the derelict, as he lay in his 
 
 shack alone, 
 With none to care for the still form there, the lips had 
 
 ceased to moan; 
 In the flickering light — 'tis a gruesome sight when God 
 
 calls a wanderer home. 
 
 I'M A WISE GUY 
 
 VES, I'm the fellow that knows it all 
 
 About this glorious game of oil; 
 I sit in the lobby every day. 
 And you can bet on what I say. 
 I've followed it up since John was a lad. 
 And know his thoughts, good and bad; 
 Geology to me is like A, B, C. 
 All the newspaper dope comes out of me. 
 The big producers I know by name, 
 And the date when they began the game; 
 I know their records from A to Z, 
 I'm a wise old owl as you can see. 
 My only object's to help the "BOYS ALONG, 
 And when I'm going good and strong 
 I boost their game, and it brings me luck; 
 My former job was driving a truck. 
 I know when the price is going up, 
 I have the instinct of a "highbrow pup" 
 Who noses the brush and flushes the game. 
 But I'm too danged modest to sign my name. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 23 
 
 Randlet, Oklahoma, Aug. 16, 1912. 
 Dear Lawrence — 
 
 I am writing you this from a little rag shack, 
 
 Just to let the boys know that I have got back. 
 
 I met Doctor Booze in town that first night. 
 
 He shook his wise head, said, that lump is a sight. 
 
 You must heed my advice, he said with a grin. 
 
 For to go back to work with that lump is a sin — 
 
 I'll take it away without blood or pain 
 
 (Of course if you're careful it will sure grow again. 
 
 So I was persuaded and went into his game 
 
 When I think of it now I was surely insane) 
 
 For he started and peeled a strip at a stroke. 
 
 It was not very painful, 'twas the truth that he spoke, 
 
 'Till 'long about midnight the lump grew so small 
 
 I could have swallowed the smear, and not choked at all. 
 
 By morning, dear Lawrence, I knew it was all wrong. 
 
 For under his treatment I had become very strong. 
 
 Now the lump being removed. Doctor Booze had gone 
 
 home. 
 And my head (mostly concrete) now felt like a bone — 
 And the things that passed by as if in review 
 Would go a long way toward filling a zoo. 
 And I learned now too late, how he lied when he said: 
 'Twould be bloodless and painless. (Great God, what a 
 
 head!) 
 A week has gone by and I am back at my toil, 
 Twisting rotten old junk, a-boring for oil; 
 Yet I still see that table where the lump was reduced 
 And I still have the ache that the spirits produced; 
 But I'm glad I've got back to that derrick of steel, 
 To the screech of the pulleys, and the whirl of the wheel, 
 To the little rag house by the side of the tree; 
 It is a slavish old game but it's better for me 
 Than old Doctor Booze with his high-balls and fizzes 
 And the life that goes with it, loose gowns, and frizzes. 
 
24 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 Now old R. E. Morse stands and peeks thro' the door 
 And smilingly asks, are you still feeling sore? 
 You have met him, dear Lawn, he's that ragged old bo. 
 That the next morning after says, "I told you so." 
 But I wish to say here, it was a loud jolly bunch. 
 Especially when soused in a foaming milk punch; 
 There was Dalton, Ted Smith, Hudson and Hivick, 
 Brice Kinney, Gartland, Summers and Heydrick. 
 Some class to that bunch when out in full force. 
 The end would be pleasant, but for that damned R. E. 
 
 Morse, 
 Now should any one ask for me, say that I pass. 
 When corks are all popping, well, just turn down a glass. 
 For never again shall women and wine 
 Perform an operation on this form of mine. 
 When reading this letter just laugh, if you will; 
 I say it's my last. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 BILL. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 25 
 
 THE TOOLEY 
 
 A POOR and worn out "Tooley" came to Heaven's 
 ^ gate, 
 Found drillers and producers crowding; sighed and said, 
 
 "I'll wait." 
 For I have been a driller's servant, always poor and plain, 
 And should I crowd up boldly, I know 'twould be in vain. 
 
 "Come! Enter the jeweled portal," said Peter; "the prize 
 
 is thine; 
 For you've shoveled the coal in the boiler and the steam 
 
 you kept was fine; 
 No driller did you keep waiting, so enter here and now — 
 A crown of life eternal is waiting to press thy brow." 
 
 The Tooley stood and trembled and cried: "Peter, dear, 
 
 not I, 
 For the man in front owned a hundred wells, I cannot 
 
 pass him by! 
 Why, I never owned an auto, I did the commonplace 
 
 things, 
 The best hand that I ever held was three aces and a pair 
 
 of kings." 
 
 "Why, I scrubbed up the derrick floor; in the coldest 
 room I slept; 
 
 I washed the driller's jacket; the towels were clean that 
 I kept; 
 
 My bits have broken and battered, drilling the 'Big Injun 
 sand'; 
 
 I've lied like a heathen to the contractor, in this, a 
 Christian land. 
 
 Why, I've stolen the farmer's chickens (I swear it's the 
 truth I tell) ; 
 
 Hid their bones in the pumpings, cooked them in the ex- 
 haust at the well. 
 
26 LUBRICA TIONS 
 
 I'm old and battered and weary; warped and gray and 
 
 bent; 
 I've received no chants of glory, the world's been good; 
 
 I'm content." 
 
 "Arise!" cried the waiting Peter; "I give you eternal 
 
 youth, 
 For you are the only Tooley that has come here and 
 
 spoken the truth; 
 I place this crown on your forehead, place you where 
 
 angels sing. 
 For if you stole the ROOSTER, you got only the backbone 
 
 and wings." 
 
 Moral: The driller and producers got the white meat. 
 
 TO GUSHING 
 
 A la Grantland Rice 
 
 WTHETHER we think your day is past, 
 " Whether we think you've gone to stay 
 Among the "has-been" gushers at last; 
 
 Whether we think you've had your day; 
 Although you'll never produce the oil. 
 
 You did in the days gone by, 
 You changed to the Prince the man of toil 
 Before they sucked you dry. 
 
 Whether your arteries are hardened and old 
 
 And have ceased response to the bit; 
 They have bled you well for your liquid gold 
 
 The bases were full when you hit. 
 You may come back with a flash once more. 
 
 Where veins have sharply turned, 
 Overlooked by the men who bore. 
 
 But the market you've scarred and burned. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 27 
 
 THE EVOLUTION OF THE ROUSTABOUT 
 
 TJE has plodded through the Beech-woods, 
 -^-*- Through the snow of Bradford's hills; 
 He has hustled for his daily food 
 
 Across the frozen rills. 
 His load would shame the burro 
 
 That he carted o'er the lease; 
 There were callouses on his shoulders, 
 
 His clothes were covered with grease. 
 He had left his home in Parker 
 
 To see the gusher spout, 
 On great bleak hills of Bradford 
 
 And to be a roustabout. 
 The "Tie-path" was a long one 
 
 From Bradford to his home; 
 He had written twice for money, 
 
 With a promise ne'er to roam. 
 After supper in the evening 
 
 He would go and call his name 
 At the postofTice 'round the corner, 
 
 But the remittance never came. 
 
 We saw him next at Butler, 
 
 He was a Farm-Boss, so he said; 
 And the hat he wore at Rixford 
 
 Didn't begin to cover his head. 
 He took a position at Washington, — 
 
 A position, and not a job, 
 Where the boys all called him Mister, — 
 
 They were fired if they called him Bob. 
 Manager they called him at Mannington, 
 
 With a stenographer his thoughts to indite, 
 'Twas hard to hold hands with Robert 
 
 And stenograph what he wanted to write. 
 
28 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 Things for Robert came quite easy, 
 
 Yet the woman that toiled all her life 
 
 Just sat at home with the children. 
 Satisfied as the manager's wife. 
 
 The interests he had, they were many. 
 
 Owned tools, and some people say 
 That he had a very large interest 
 
 In a lease, making five hundred per day. 
 But up in that office on Broadway 
 
 Where the Octopus lies coiled in his lair 
 Awaiting the reports of its servants. 
 
 This rumor impregnates the air. 
 It called for immediate action. 
 
 For John D. must own all the oil — 
 The ideal that one of his trusties 
 
 Should get just one lease from his toil; 
 He immediately wired Mister Robert 
 
 His production at once he must sell; 
 The reply "John" received was a corker — 
 
 The message read : "You go to H 1." 
 
 He had more to pack in his "Turkey" 
 
 Than when he left home on the rocks; 
 Then his suit case contained fifty-four pieces, 
 
 A deck of cards, and a pair of old socks. 
 But now it was bursting with clothing. 
 
 There were collars and cuffs and cravats, 
 A white vest and silk underwear plenty. 
 
 And one of "them" new-fangled silk hats. 
 The men all liked chesty Robert, 
 
 Since he had got over his pride, 
 And came from all points to bid him farewell — 
 
 There was one big-hearted fellow that cried. 
 As he stood on the rear end of the Pullman, 
 
 He waved his silk hat to the boys: 
 So long to you, friends and old comrades. 
 
 You'll hear from me soon from IH'nois." 
 
LUBRICATIONS 29 
 
 Lucky? Why everything Robert went into 
 
 Was just like old wheat in the mill, 
 And nature unburdened her secrets 
 
 To point out the right spot to drill. 
 He's as rich as the proverbial Crcesus, 
 
 And sits in a large roller chair, 
 At the top of a sky-scraping building, 
 
 Where he breathes altitudinous air. 
 In a "buzz wagon" he comes to his office. 
 
 Eats luncheon at twelve, dines at five; 
 He just loves the classic Grand Opera; 
 
 He's the greatest art critic alive. 
 They say he's educated and cultured. 
 
 An authority on poetry and art. 
 Reads Virgil's orations for pastime, 
 
 The niad he knows all by heart. 
 His taste for "sow-belly" has left him. 
 
 And Arbuckle's Jav he can't stand; 
 He craves dishes that sound "a la Creole," 
 
 And must have the accompanying band. 
 
 OUR FLAG 
 
 "DAPTIZED with shot and shell 
 -*-' And drenched in patriots' blood. 
 What stories she could tell 
 
 Of how for right she stood. 
 An emblem of the free, 
 
 We men of this proud state 
 Are part and parcel, you and me. 
 
 Of what has made her great. 
 Long may the handsome banner wave 
 
 Above our peaceful home. 
 And plant it o'er our lonely grave 
 
 When called to God's white throne. 
 
30 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 THE TRUTH 
 
 TF you're waking kick me early, kick me early won't you, 
 
 -■- dear? 
 
 For you have punched my meal ticket all this bloomin' 
 
 year. 
 It was a happy springtime the best I'd ever seen, 
 Until you cut the price of oil, and jarred me from my 
 dream. 
 
 I'll give away my pumping wells, for my fortune's well 
 
 nigh spent, 
 The banker holds the deed of trust, and I cannot pay my 
 
 rent; 
 There'll never be a glad new year for Oklahoma oil. 
 For Mag and Mac and Standard Oil have robbed them of 
 
 their toil. 
 
 They'll not renew the Osage lease, now mark well what 
 
 I say. 
 No matter how the Brennans talk, or the Kellys, and 
 
 Judge Shea; 
 The Osage cow is a farrow now, they've milked her clean 
 
 and dry. 
 In nineteen sixteen, is twenty years, so let's let the old 
 
 lease die. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 31 
 
 THE LEASER'S ARGUMENT 
 
 A LEASER went to work one day; 
 "^ A norther swept the moor; 
 He went his cheerful kindly way 
 
 To help a worthy poor. 
 He found the ranchman at his home 
 
 He grabbed his horny hand, 
 And said, I'm glad you are alone 
 
 For I want to lease your land. 
 
 You've made no crops, the leaser said. 
 
 You have nothing for your toil, 
 I'll drill a well, the leaser plead, 
 
 That will make you rich with oil. 
 No more you'll eat the sour dough 
 
 But pie and cake for your'n; 
 Your wife won't cut the wood, I know. 
 
 For you'll have gas to burn. 
 
 It's not a dream that soon will fade 
 
 The facts are cold as steel; 
 You'll cease to drive that Pinto jade, 
 
 You'll sit behind the wheel; 
 You'll leave the farm, and go to to town 
 
 With Mayme, and Jim, and Lee, 
 Y'ou'U have a cottage painted brown 
 
 If you'll lease your land to me. 
 
 What Happened 
 
 He grabbed that leaser by his clothes. 
 
 With one hand yanked his hair. 
 He smashed him on the face and nose. 
 
 And tore his clothes for fair; 
 He threw him on the frozen clay. 
 
 He kicked him where he sits. 
 The leaser dodged and got away, 
 
 For the farm wasn't worth "two-bits. 
 
32 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 MORE PIPE LINES 
 
 CHOULD you ask the needs of Oil Men, 
 ^ With their great and flush production 
 And the pipe lines goading, goading 
 
 Them to dire and swift destruction; 
 When the shylocks and the bankers 
 
 Show their ledger red from usage, 
 And their credit balance distant 
 
 From expense of their construction; 
 With the grocer, and the meat man. 
 
 Looking stern at other orders; 
 And the gasoline for last month 
 
 For the classic aut-to-mo-bile, 
 Not yet paid for at the garage, 
 
 Wifey wearing last year's bonnet; 
 This is not an idle sonnet. 
 
 It's the truth and I can prove it 
 By the needs of all the Oil Men. 
 
 What they need, if you should ask me, 
 It is pipe lines with large holes in. 
 
 It is stations with large pumps in, 
 And the market broad and worldly. 
 
 This is then the needs of Oil Men. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 33 
 
 WHEN IT^S ALL OFF 
 
 T^ON'T bury me in a graveyard, when I have traveled 
 
 ^ west, 
 
 But bury me near an oil-field, the place that I've loved 
 
 best; 
 An anvil for a pillow, and on it lay my head. 
 And seal my grave with paraffin when I am dead. 
 
 When it's all off, throw down a bellows for my bed. 
 And light the way with "yellow dogs" and set them at my 
 
 head; 
 There where I've struggled 'long my happy way, 
 Where I'll feel the auger pounding; there I'll meet the 
 
 day. 
 
 When it's all off, let me hear the derrick groan, as man 
 
 alive; 
 Let the beam whine above me, and let the engine drive; 
 And when the tools are piled, and the cable's off and 
 
 dried, 
 Let me lay where I can feel it all, when I have died. 
 
34 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 IRISH MARY 
 
 "PJON'T know "Irish Mary"? You must be young in the 
 
 -'^ trade, 
 
 For ahnost a half a century she's been called the "oil- 
 country jade." 
 
 No door did she ever find open; no children played at 
 her knee, 
 
 For she was a broken old derelict, on a turbulent human 
 sea. 
 
 She curses, she rants in her frenzy — she swears she's as 
 good as the best; 
 
 She "digs" with her gnarled fingers, a crucifix from the 
 sunken old breast; 
 
 The children all run when they see her — young woman- 
 hood catches its breath; 
 
 My God, she was a horrible vision — stumbling on and on, 
 until death. 
 
 They called her old "Irish Mary" — no one knew aught of 
 
 her past; 
 She was one of the first in the new oil-fields — usually 
 
 stayed 'till the last. 
 She drank the "speak-easy whiskey" — the roulette board 
 
 was her bed 
 'Till the dive-keeper got over virtuous, then the cold 
 
 ground she gets in its stead. 
 
 I remember the last time I saw her — it was a cold and a 
 
 boisterous night; 
 The snow blew thro' cracks in the derrick, the wind was 
 
 out in its might; 
 I heard a knock at the walk-side door, I heard it again 
 
 and again; 
 The wind howled louder and louder, and the derrick 
 
 groaned as in pain. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 35 
 
 What's that? A woman's voice — like the wail of a soul in 
 
 despair! 
 I opened the door and there on the walk lay Mary with 
 
 disheveled hair. 
 We gently carried her into the light. The face was 
 
 wrinkled and old, 
 Swollen and beaten by the ice-flakes blue and tumid from 
 
 cold. 
 
 I chafed and rubbed her dirty hands — My God, 'twas a 
 
 gruesome sight, 
 The breath was foul with whiskey; a soul went to Hell 
 
 that night. 
 With the crucifix clasped in her fingers, she kissed it o'er 
 
 and o'er — 
 The features of "Irish Mary" are known in the oil-fields 
 
 no more. 
 
36 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 THE GHOST OF BARNEY THOLOGO 
 
 T WAS sitting, sadly dreaming of my legal ship careening, 
 
 O'er court-house billows and their angry roar; 
 Through those big books still a-dreaming, 
 When I heard some one tapping — rapping at my ofTice 
 
 door. 
 " 'Tis the wind," I muttered faintly, "merely this and noth- 
 ing more; 
 Just the wind and nothing more." 
 
 Back unto my volume turning, all my soul within me 
 
 burning. 
 When again I heard the tapping — somewhat louder 
 
 than before — 
 Surely, I am not mistaken, some one's rapping at my ofTice 
 
 door. 
 I must quell the throbbin' heart-beats and this mystery 
 
 explore." 
 Went I then in fear and trembling, to this mystery explore. 
 Darkness there and nothing more. 
 
 Open then I flung the screen-door, with my heart all in a 
 flutter. 
 In there stepped a stately Indian wrapped in blanket, 
 as of yore; 
 Now we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
 Ever yet was blest with seeing Ghost of Barney at the door, 
 Standing there like sculptured marble, in the frameway 
 of the door; 
 It was Barney, nothing more. 
 
 Deep into his black eyes peering, long I stood there won- 
 dering, fearing. 
 Thinking thoughts no human being ever dared to 
 think before; 
 
LUBRICATIONS 37 
 
 But the silence was unbroken, and his features gave no 
 
 token 
 3f the thoughts that were unspoken; I had seen that face 
 
 before, 
 ?0T it was the face of Barney, wandering from his nightly 
 
 shore — 
 Barney Tholoco, nothing more. 
 
 'Tell me, Barney, tell me, why you left night's Plutonian 
 
 shore? 
 For you're dead as all good Injuns, courts have said so 
 
 long before. 
 A. well was flowing on the Cimarron's winding shore." 
 Yet he stood there, all undaunted, as if he was a thing 
 
 enchanted. 
 "Please go back to Stygian darkness, please go back, I 
 
 thee implore." 
 And the redman's only answer — "Nevermore !" 
 
 Then he rose as if departing, "Ghost or Devil," I shrieked, 
 up-starting, 
 "Get thee back into the tempest, and the night's Plu- 
 tonian shore. 
 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken." Then he opened wide 
 the door. 
 
 In there filed a thousand phantoms. Tommy Atkinses 
 galore, 
 
 And the room was filled with Tommies from the window 
 to the door — 
 Filled with Tommies to the door. 
 
 Why should I stand there and cavil— if they're sent by 
 
 God or devil, 
 Whether from the dome inverted, or from the dark 
 
 and Stygian shore, 
 I will take those phantom leases. Slipped I 'round and 
 
 locked the door. K 
 
38 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 Then I asked how many Tommies, and they answered, 
 "We're a score." 
 The phantoms answered many more. 
 
 Turned I then to solemn Barney, elbows resting on his 
 knees. 
 Asked him of his many children, numerous as the 
 forest trees. 
 
 Then I wrote the leases quickly, fearing there'd be many 
 more; 
 
 Signed and sealed them in the office, witnessed by the 
 devil's spore. 
 
 Then I 'wakened, startled, frighted, at the creaking of 
 the door, 
 To find the bottle clean and empty — here's my prom- 
 ise— NEVERMORE. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 39 
 
 TOMMY ATKINS 
 
 THE lawyer's meal TICKET AND THE GRAFTER's HEAVEN 
 
 VOU have asked me for a story 
 -*- Of traditions, myths and legends 
 That concern one Tommy Atkins. 
 There are many, many Atkins, 
 Each one darker than the other, 
 Black of heart and very crafty. 
 Each one claims he has no brothers. 
 Every oil man has a Tommy 
 Just as good as any other. 
 
 What about him do you ask me? 
 Listen now and I will tell you. 
 In the valley of the Cimarron, 
 In the verdant, silent valley. 
 Dwelt the forebear of this Tommy. 
 Veiled in mystery was this maiden. 
 No one knew aught of her husband. 
 No one knew aught of her Tommy, 
 Each of which she may have had one. 
 No one seems to care at this time. 
 When the golden flow was opened 
 Straightway came the men of wisdom, 
 Rich in ways and means so crafty. 
 Rich in years of oil production. 
 Thro' the records grim and musty 
 Hunted they for birth of Tommy; 
 Found his wonderous birth and being. 
 How he lived and died in sutf ering 
 Just before the golden harvest 
 Had he lived that he'd been heir to. 
 Now, across his quiet head-stone — 
 Head-stone without an inscription— 
 
40 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 Are lawyers pleading, arguing wisely 
 That there is a real live Tommy, 
 That the grave of Tommy's vacant. 
 Others argue, just as wisely, 
 That there never was a Tommy, 
 That Tom's enrollment never happened. 
 While others look on with compassion. 
 Each of which has the real and only 
 Tommy Atkins of the Cimarron. 
 
 Why this quarrel for wasted vale-land 
 
 Go subdue your stubborn natures. 
 
 For Tommy Atkins is a myth. 
 
 Go allay your thirst and fevers — 
 
 If there was a real Tom Atkins 
 
 List the north winds they will tell you 
 
 That they'd dig him from the graveyard. 
 
 Take his bones and wire together 
 
 To exhibit in the court-house, 
 
 Just to show the phoney Tommies 
 
 That the only Tommy lived. 
 
 And we weary of your lawsuits. 
 
 Of your inharmonious discords. 
 
 And the north wind passing whispers. 
 
 All this land is the whole nation's — 
 
 Tommy Atkins is a myth. 
 
 Solomon and all Wisdom could not handle the ques- 
 tions that confront the courts of Oklahoma. 
 
 For 
 
 He had lived with Hebrews, where the best was like the 
 
 worst; 
 His laws the Ten Commandments, he could always quench 
 
 his thirst. 
 When the temple bells called Solomon to issue his decrees 
 He didn't have the lawyers, to swarm around like bees. 
 The problems that confronted him he solved them right 
 
 off hand. 
 
LUBRICA TIONS 41 
 
 But out there in Jerusalem, they had no Atkins land. 
 
 So if Solomon had the questions that confront our district 
 
 court 
 He would be a bum old piker and not the wise old sport. 
 
 THE OIL COUNTRY TOMMY ATKINS 
 
 (With apologies to Kipling) 
 
 T WENT into the court 'ouse to 'ear what I could 'ear — 
 
 The judge 'e up and sez to me, "What are ye doin' 'ere?' 
 The lawyers at the bar they laughed and giggled fit to die, 
 For they 'ad the ONLY Tommy — they 'ad no use for I. 
 
 O, they's a Tommy or they ain't a Tommy, so chase your- 
 self away, 
 
 But they'll need this Tommy Atkins when the court is in 
 full sway; 
 
 When the court is in full sway, me boys, when the court 
 is in full sway. 
 
 For they IS a Tommy Atkins, both Page and Josey say. 
 
 Page and Josey ain't no 'eroes, they ain't no blackguards 
 
 too. 
 They're just shrewd business oil men, just like me and 
 
 you; 
 And sometimes if their conduct isn't all our fancy paints 
 Just remembeF all the oil men don't grow into plaster 
 
 saints. 
 
 We need a Tommy Atkins, and we'll get one, never mind, 
 We'll need 'im on the witness stand, when there's trouble 
 
 in the wind. 
 When there's trouble in the wind me boys, when there's 
 
 trouble in the wind, 
 Just any old black nigger, for our courts are always blind. 
 
42 LUBRICA TIONS 
 
 We leased the land from Tommy's ma, while Tommy was 
 
 asleep, 
 We've got our papers signed by her, 'twas a shame they 
 
 were so cheap; 
 We knew that Tommy was a myth, his mother was a joke; 
 We took our chance with justice and we'll law them 'till 
 
 they're broke. 
 
 For with Tommy here and Tommy there, and Tommy 
 
 just outside, 
 But it's fine hotels for Tommy when the suit is on inside; 
 When the suit is on inside, me boys, and the lawyers 
 
 always rave. 
 We will have a Tommy Atkins, if we dig 'im from the 
 
 grave. 
 
 Tommy Atkins' mother must of had triplets galore. 
 Each time of her confinement she must have had a score; 
 For they are finding Tommy Atkinses in every wood and 
 
 dell. 
 And the grafting shyster lawyers make the devil smile in 
 
 hell. 
 
 For Tommy Atkins' father must have been a prolific soul, 
 When first oil was discovered how the Tommys in did roll. 
 How the Tommys in did roll, me boys, a hundred in a day. 
 For there's a thousand Tommy Atkinses, so Page and 
 Josey say. 
 
 ALAS! POOR PADEN— WE KNEW HER 
 DISPOSITION 
 
 ALAS! poor Paden, we knew her well (Oil Well) 
 
 ■^^ She "busted" the market and simply raised H 1. 
 
 Well, we waited and watched, admired their gall, 
 Of boosting a gusher, when they'd nothing a-tall — 
 We groaned at expense, that the wise ones were laden. 
 With geology, biology, criminology at Paden. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 43 
 
 How they delved in that mystery, that little dark hole, 
 How the wires rang out, as they perjured their soul; 
 But before they drilled in, they wired New York 
 For the guys with the high-brows, that will grow into pork. 
 And they all came down to see this mystery explored. 
 And see their wealth trickling down the hole that they 
 
 bored; 
 For they were as ignorant as a sweet country maiden. 
 But paragorically speaking they got wisdom at Paden. 
 
 They'll rush back to New York with a wail and a whine. 
 And get out their axes, cut the price a thin dime, 
 For tips to the porters, livery, auto and sich 
 Hurts a "high-brow" like blazes, even if rich. 
 To their grandsons they'll tell in monkey-like chatter 
 How the great Paden well was drilled into water. 
 And how this dear child with gold would be laden. 
 Had they NOT played geology down there at Paden. 
 
 Afterword 
 
 All the science and faith in this world or the 
 world to come will not make a gusher out of a 
 Sixty Barrel Well. Geology may have found Catamites 
 cannseformis, or they may have found some skulls Dino- 
 therium giganteum or some Chamfered and imbricated 
 scales, but none of these seemed to have the Oleaginous 
 matter in sufficient quantities to spontaneously gush forth 
 the flow of gold anticipated, aye, even commanded by 
 the pampered sons of Broadway. If they insisted on 
 seeing oil flow I would suggest that they shoot a 42-inch 
 centimeter shell through fifty-five thousand barrel tanks. 
 That would have been better sport than shooting a "Dago" 
 camp in Colorado. 
 
44 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 THE OIL COUNTRY VAMPIRE 
 
 A FOOL there was and he drilled a hole. 
 
 Even as you and I. 
 He selected the spot and bet his roll, 
 He sold; the stock and perjured his soul, 
 
 Even as you and I. 
 
 'Twas a judgment test and he used his best. 
 
 As he sat at eventide, 
 And dreamed a dream of a feathered nest, , ' 
 
 The comfort he'd have in the years of rest. 
 
 But he found his "Dream-child" lied. 
 
 A fool there was and he gave his note. 
 
 Even as you and I. 
 For stock in a "Wild-cat well," he wrote — 
 The dividends did not seem so remote — 
 He felt very much like a bonded "Bloat," 
 
 Even as you and I. 
 
 Oh! the cents we lose, and the sense we lose 
 
 Figuring dividends with pride. 
 In castles of air, we had builded there 
 In vision of beauty with never a care. 
 
 Yet we were not satisfied. 
 
 The fool went broke to his last red cent. 
 
 Even as you and I. 
 The well was dry and the money was spent. 
 Nobody cared where the plunger went; |^ 
 Yet he gave tongue to a loud lament, ^ 
 
 Even as you and I. 
 
 He cared not for loss, for money is dross. 
 
 The reason that poor fool cried. 
 It was when he had known, he was scraped to the bone. 
 That he was tlirown on the world alone, 
 
 'Twas failure that hurt his pride. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 45 
 
 THAT ANALYZING OIL EDITOR 
 
 "TV OWN around Muskogee they lead the simple life, 
 ■*-^ But their popular Oil Editor is always seeking strife; 
 His feet are awful tender, has the wisdom of the owl. 
 And he uses dum-dum bullets which all experts say are 
 foul. 
 
 He kin take a little oil dope, not over two lines long. 
 And make a column story when he is going strong; 
 He can write about the storage with all its downs and ups; 
 He can tell the date exactly when the bull-wheel-dog had 
 pups. 
 
 He kin tell each blooming error in the Prairie's garbled 
 
 table. 
 And is the only honest interpreter of the Pipe Line and its 
 
 fable; 
 He kin punctuate the Pipe Line Runs, and tell 'em right 
 
 off hand; 
 He knows the favorable comments as the ranchman 
 
 knows his brand. 
 
 He criticizes ignorance, among our great and small. 
 He's a serious minded "pusson" with his belly full of gall. 
 The Editor of the Phoenix should advance Patricka 
 
 Moore, 
 For he's slaughtered all the dopesters, loves to wade 
 
 around in gore. 
 
 I 
 
46 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 EAST OR WEST IT IS THE SAME OLD 
 THING 
 
 TT is the same old farmer, in the same old place, 
 
 The same old whiskers on the same old face; 
 The same old woman and the same old wail, 
 The same old piker and his same old tale; 
 The same old story with the same twinkling eye. 
 To perforate the acres tho' they all are dry. 
 The same livery horses, the same old rig. 
 The same old buggy top is on the same "old pig"; 
 The same old girl, the same dainty feet. 
 The same old hominy and the same dirty sheet; 
 The same old office where you hear the same old lies; 
 The same old prunes, and the same old pies, 
 The same old dining-room, the same broken chair, 
 The same old side meat, with the same teat and hair. 
 It is the same old story when you want to pay your fees. 
 We never make a charge, you can pay what you please. 
 The same old landlady, the same daughter sweet. 
 The same favorite boarder makes your misery complete. 
 The same lavatory, the same dinner bell. 
 The same old boarders, wish for the same old hell; 
 The same old rain, the same old slime. 
 The same old railroad, four hours behind time; 
 The same old skinner, with the same old smile. 
 With the same evil thought in the same old style; 
 Will the same old heaven be the same sweet place. 
 For the same weary leaser, with the same smiling face. 
 Or the same old hell with its same old fire. 
 Fry the wronged piker because he's such a liar? 
 
 But if we get up yonder where the streets are paved with 
 
 gold, 
 Will we have to listen to stories so often told? 
 "Me and my old woman have worked so hard and long, 
 For this farm of forty acres, now lease it for a song? 
 If so, O, Good Lord, spare us from the anguish and the 
 
 pain. 
 And send us down to Hades to forever there remain. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 47 
 
 THE OLD MAN^S LAMENT 
 
 'THEY'VE moved the Postoffice, William, 
 
 From the little shack on B — 
 Moved it from that tumbled-in building. 
 
 Where it's been since seventy-three; 
 Another "land-mark" gone, William, 
 
 A mile-stone passed in a stride. 
 Installed in that pressed brick building 
 
 That St. Albans points to with pride. 
 Yes, they've moved the Postoffice, William, 
 
 Have furnished it new and complete 
 With gas and electricity lighted. 
 
 And warmed by that new-fangled heat; 
 Why, Bill, they have six hundred boxes. 
 
 And it is finished in quarter-sawed oak; 
 We may be old and back numbers, 
 
 But that finery all looks like a joke. 
 Mail passed thro' windows of gold, William, 
 
 Wouldn't be any sweeter to you 
 Than mail you received from the broken down door. 
 
 From the sweetheart that loved you so true. 
 They are setting the pace pretty fast, Bill, 
 
 They'll carry you and me off our feet; 
 Why, store keepers growl when you spit on the floor. 
 
 The next thing they'll be paving our street. 
 We have seen many changes, friend William, 
 
 From the rumbling old hack to the trains; 
 From the curb money broker to banker. 
 
 But our old-fashioned Postmistress remains. 
 The spring of youth's been discovered, 
 
 Years and years she has handled the mails; 
 Generations unborn will get mail from her hand. 
 
 For eternal youth never fails. 
 They say, Bill, in this new office 
 
 That once a week they're going to sweep; 
 
48 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 A sign will be over the door-way, 
 
 Gentlemen will please clean their feet; 
 If they get so "blooming persnickety, 
 
 I'll go to Washington and see 
 If we can't move it back to B street 
 
 As it was in seventy-three. 
 Yes, they've moved the Postoffice, William, 
 
 From the little shack down on B; 
 We'll have to get used to the modern ways. 
 
 We've just got to do it, you and me. 
 They are not satisfied as yet, William, 
 
 With the Postoffice, new and bright, 
 They object to our dear old Postmistress 
 
 Because of her failing sight. 
 They slipped away to the capital. Bill, 
 
 To play their political game. 
 Adopting the gumshoe methods. 
 
 Be it said of them to their shame. 
 For thirty-eight years, more or less. Bill, 
 
 Her books have been kept clean and white, 
 From a few business letters and missives 
 
 To mail by carloads each night. 
 To her trust she has always been true. Bill, 
 
 Of the Inspector she had no fears, 
 I've complained at the service and growled. Friend, 
 
 But I apologize tonight, Bill, with tears. 
 Thousands upon thousands she's handled. Bill, 
 
 With never a blot on her name; 
 She deserves something better, friend William, 
 
 Than used, and thrown aside, like a cane. 
 I have just had a talk with her, William, 
 
 And on her old cheek you could trace 
 The signs of grief, and displeasure. 
 
 Chiseled deep in her old wrinkled face. 
 I feel very badly tonight, William, 
 
 That ingratitude at our capital holds sway; 
 The motto, "Honor to Whom it is Due," William, 
 
 Stands deserted, along the highway. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 49 
 
 O YOU KITTY! 
 
 r\ KITTY, you're a darling— 
 
 ^ You're a sweet-faced Indian Queen. 
 
 There must have been a starling 
 
 To whisper in your dream 
 That "Midco" and Fred Aiken 
 
 Had large bundles of the green. 
 And you could do the raking 
 
 To crown you, Kate, with sheen. 
 
 A bonus, dear Miss Fixico, 
 
 Of fifty thousand stones 
 From Aiken and the Midco 
 
 Must have scraped them to the bones. 
 You could buy a good young man with that, 
 
 A white one. Red or Creek, 
 And if you won't mind one that's fat. 
 
 For myself I hope to speak. 
 
 If you'll turn to me what's in your name, 
 
 I'll furnish the checks all right; 
 I'll show you how to spend the same 
 
 Like a Christian and a knight. 
 You're just a simple-minded girl. 
 
 Haven't touched life's cup of gall, 
 I care not if your hair don't curl, 
 
 I'll help you spend it all. 
 
50 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 THE LAW OF THE OIL-FIELD 
 
 Suggested by the fire at Tulsa, Okla., where five men 
 met their death July 24, 1913. Lighting a match was the 
 cause. 
 
 'T'HIS is the law of the Oil-Field, and ever it must be 
 
 plain, 
 She must kill the match-lighting smoker, the cigarette- 
 smoking insane; 
 Her lives are valued by loved ones, her men are as good 
 
 as the best; 
 She has nurtured them all on her bosom, has lulled them 
 
 oft to their rest. 
 When her hidden treasures are punctured, and she 
 
 gushes forth in her might, 
 And you see the guy rolling his "pimp-stick," feeling his 
 
 clothes for a light — 
 Just grab up the "Porgie-jack-lever" and smash him over 
 
 the head — 
 Drive home the "rig-builders-hatchet," be sure that this 
 
 fool is dead; 
 Drown him like a rat in the river, starve him like the 
 
 spawn of the plains — 
 Leave him to rot near his folly, poisoned and hollow his 
 
 veins. 
 This is the law of the toiler, the ones that have ever been 
 
 first. 
 To lay cooling hands on those injured, by the match- 
 lighting ninny accursed; 
 This is the law of the lowly, the millionaire man and their 
 
 spawn 
 For the ones who carry the tinders, death must be sure 
 
 and swift as the dawn. 
 This is the law of the Oil-Field — that before you may raise 
 
 the latch. 
 You must learn that more lives and property are 
 
 destroyed each year by the match; 
 
LUBRICATIONS 51 
 
 [andsome ones, burned crisp and distorted, eyes staring, 
 
 red and aglare, 
 'hese branded men, they confront you, these are the facts 
 
 that's laid bare. 
 
 (With apologies to Robert W. Service.) 
 
 THE CRY OF THE TAME 
 
 T WANT to get away from the city. 
 
 Where squalor is seen every day, 
 I want to go out in the wildwood, 
 
 In highways and byways in May; 
 Away from the cursed vile city. 
 
 Away from its rumble and roar. 
 Out to the hills, grand and silent. 
 
 Where the lark and eagle soar. 
 Somehow the city seems lonely. 
 
 True, 1 am old and I'm slow. 
 But the city's wild cry is pathetic, 
 
 It hurts me and I just have to go. 
 
 Let me get away from eyes staring. 
 
 Away from the faces so grim; 
 Let me pluck beautiful flowers 
 
 Away from the tumult and sin. 
 Let me get away from sky scrapers, 
 
 The ones that are builded by man, 
 Lead me to the sky piercing mountains 
 
 Builded by God's own plan. 
 There let me breathe their fragrance. 
 
 Let me list to their purring streams. 
 Let me grow wild like the flowers 
 
 In this, the land of my dreams. 
 
52 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 THE FARMER^S SAND 
 
 "PJID a dry one come in out at Burk, Louie? 
 
 My word, what a cruel blow! 
 Why, we worked like blooming Turks, Louie, 
 
 To make that Roberts well flow. 
 Dost think thou art deep enough, Louie? 
 
 Let me hold your little white hand. 
 We knoweth ours is big and rough, Louie, 
 
 But 'twill brace you to the farmer's sand. 
 
 That is the sand you know, Louie, 
 
 That never bef ore's been explored; 
 It is one with the rainbow glow, Louie, 
 
 Its innards have never been bored; 
 It's a sand that lies deep in the earth, Louie, 
 
 A sand that to some is a dream. 
 We have tried to find it since birth, Louie, 
 
 To unseal it and take out its cream. 
 
 Some fellow will do it some time, Louie, 
 
 When done it'll be an awful deep well; 
 It will take a long drilling line, Louie, 
 
 For it will be China, oil, gas, or hell. 
 You don't know where it is found, Louie? 
 
 Now listen and I'll give you light. 
 It is ten thousand feet under ground, Louie, 
 
 Now, Louie, don't drop dead from fright. 
 
 If you'd drill 'till you punctured Nick's soul, Louie, 
 
 And your bank book was painted in red, 
 You'd be taking the farmer's toll, Louie, 
 
 It would not be deep enough, so he said. 
 Remember that only wells that have oil, Louie, 
 
 Will satisfy the owners of land; 
 Then you'll receive kind words for your toil, Louie, 
 
 But don't try for the old farmer's sand. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 53 
 
 REMINISCENT 
 
 "1¥7HEN you were a Tooley and I was the same 
 '^ Back in the Bradford day — 
 We'd no auto to ride the mountain side 
 
 And the contractor had his say; 
 We hammered the bit, 'till we threw a fit, 
 
 While the steel grew cold and blue. 
 With our sweaty face, 'twas a driving race. 
 
 And our thoughts, tho' crude, were true. 
 
 Careless we slaved, and careless we played, 
 
 And reckless at last we came; 
 To the rainbow's glow and life's big show 
 
 In the blaze and the flare of fame; 
 How they smirked and smiled, as wealth we piled, 
 
 We were gods of a Mammon age; 
 We were in the spell of wealth to dwell. 
 
 And we talked like a slobbering sage. 
 
 Now comes the thought, what price we bought 
 
 The pleasure, and tinsel, and fraud; 
 Have we played a square game in winning our fame. 
 
 Are we still the noble works of God? 
 Or has grasping for gold shriveled our soul 
 
 And blighted a life free from care? 
 Now what would we give, to go back there and live 
 
 Where wild flowers scent the pure air? 
 
 Where birds sound a warning of the sunburst of morning. 
 
 That blends with the beam's plaintive whine, 
 And the whispering breeze converse with the trees, 
 
 And pure mountain water our wine; 
 Then our bits cut the ditch, now we are rich, 
 
 With all that riches can buy. 
 Have we counted the cost in what we have lost? 
 
 Then why for the old life do we sigh? 
 
54 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 EDWIN L. DRAKE 
 
 The Dreamer 
 
 'T'HOU, the dreamer, hast builded cities where silence 
 
 reigned supreme; 
 Thy vision was within the soul — and peered behind the 
 
 future screen. 
 Amid pastoral scenes where sang the lark, thy sobs and 
 
 tears came from a broken heart, 
 And blended with the sneers and jeers of little men whose 
 
 views were swart. 
 Through unknown ages the voice of destiny called to 
 
 thee from out the vast, 
 To hew the way, to blaze the trail through unknown 
 
 rocks, the cloth of courage at thy mast. 
 Since thou hast pioneered the way — the jagged spires of 
 
 wood and steel pierce the new world's sky; 
 The pregnant earth yields wealth — but not for thee; her 
 
 golden fluid is but thy dream's reply. 
 Homes of wealth and luster are set upon the land that 
 
 thou hast found. 
 Through hurts and chills and hungry cries within thyself, 
 
 no kindly one to sooth the wound; 
 Three score and two years have past. A thoughtless pub- 
 lic is roused to honor now thy name. 
 In brick and stone and flaming torch — a marble bust in 
 
 the hall of fame. 
 Gold pours from corners of the earth that gave thee 
 
 name and gave thee birth, 
 In honor of thy glorious deeds to us poor mortals of this 
 
 earth. 
 A public benefactor thou! Thy genius is God's greatest 
 
 gift; 
 It pulses through the touring car and splits the fleecy 
 
 clouds adrift. 
 Oh! wondrous mind! What highways open up their scenes 
 
 to thee! 
 
EDWIN L. DRAKE 
 
LUBRICATIONS 55 
 
 Centuries unborn will rise and praise the conquerors of 
 
 the air and sea; 
 Walls may crumble, empires fall, islands will rise from 
 
 out the sea; 
 But the dreamer's work goes on and on and blends with 
 
 all eternity. 
 To thee, Edwin Drake, and your pioneer soul, that's why 
 
 we honor thee now — 
 Thou hast made the world richer with happier homes; to 
 
 a world's benefactor we bow. 
 
 TELL THEM AGAIN TO ME 
 
 /^OME, tell me a tale of pioneer days. 
 
 Of the early days in oil, 
 Of Colonel Drake and Dan O'Day 
 
 And the fighting of old George Coil; 
 Tell us of days on the old Tarr farm. 
 
 Of the boarding house up on the hill — 
 Where coffee was handed to you lukewarm 
 
 And the beans were cooked with skill. 
 Tell me of days when John D. R. 
 
 Had hair on his old bald pate; 
 When Henry M. didn't own the car 
 
 That he used to travel in state. 
 Tell us of days of five dollar oil 
 
 The day when Cal Payne pulled the tongs. 
 When Archibald rested in peace from his toil 
 
 And his life was one sweet song. 
 Tell us of days when Cap Grace was a kid. 
 
 Great heaven, that's too ancient, I fear; 
 For that dates back before John and his lid 
 
 Covered all the good leases that's here. 
 Tell us of days of the Parker Exchange, 
 
 Gee! What an unappropriate name! 
 
56 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 For entering there you came without change 
 
 As you bet on the other man's game. 
 Tell of Ben Hogan when he was afloat 
 
 Before he was converted and reborn, 
 Of the living pictures he kept on the boat. 
 
 With music and mirth until morn. 
 Tell us of days when the Tooley was boss. 
 
 When Yonkins "thumbed" carefully the clamps, 
 And of days when Morgue Davis never was cross. 
 
 And the producers were men and not tramps. 
 Tell us of days when Ed Jennings was free, 
 
 But he was never known to be that, 
 Except when he paid the alderman his fee — 
 
 At that so I've read he stands pat. 
 Tell us of days of Bradford's deep snows. 
 
 When John Eton drummed his own trade. 
 And told to the buyer a tale of his woes. 
 
 And his clothes were not tailor made. 
 
 Tell them again, those pioneer days. 
 
 How those giants dragged wealth from their toil; 
 Of the Arbuckle Jav, the beans and the maize 
 
 They were fed on while boring for oil. 
 We never grow weary of the old, old tales 
 
 Of the trials of that bold pioneer 
 Who 'mid snow and ice and his own dinner pail 
 
 Gave the comforts of home with its cheer. 
 To the old pioneer we offer this toast: 
 
 May your declining old days be serene; 
 You've suffered on earth many a roast, 
 
 When dead may your grave be kept green. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 57 
 
 GENIUS 
 
 T BEGAN with the creation, for I am the creator; 
 
 ■^ Years unborn will feel my magic touch; 
 
 Stones will be reared to my dedication 
 
 For my vassals are the years. 
 
 No race, clime or condition claim me as their own, 
 
 The scullion's cabin, or marble halls my home; 
 
 I put the miracle solution in the brain of man, 
 
 To stab the heavens with a comb of spires. 
 
 The walls of empires crumble and fall. A tidal wave 
 
 Sweeps from the sea, and undermines the rock, 
 
 But I go on forever. The millions slave. 
 
 I drag from mother earth her richest treasures 
 
 And weave her jewels in a crown for man; 
 
 The spring of eternal youth is but a step. 
 
 When the wizard's brain receives the ban. 
 
 Aye, the devil's work comes from my storehouse, 
 
 The steel clad leviathans, the shot, the shell. 
 
 The Nation's weapons but the warriors' hell. 
 
 The trackless forests, the unchartered sea 
 
 Are the printed pages of a book to me. 
 
 For I'm the maker of charts, and blaze the way. 
 
 The sprocket wheel, belts of steel, the whirling wheel 
 
 Are the fabrics woven by my hand. 
 
58 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 LAMENT TO BACCHUS 
 
 r\ BACCHUS, God of Rum and Mail Pouch, 
 ^■^ My poor deluded Bacchus, would that I had drank 
 The spirits for you. Rather had 1 smoked the pipe 
 That gave me visions of gnomes and fairies. 
 It is but true that fairies are not habitats of this earth ; 
 Neither is the "Peach Limb" or the magnetic needle 
 Used to find the precious fluid that mother earth 
 Has hidden so carefully, for the ages past. 
 You have been a good old sport, and wise as Solomon, but 
 Alas! alas! you must remember the fate of the false 
 Prophets of old. How sorry I am to tell you, that the 
 Nutty houses are full of erring Oil Smellers; 
 And the experts shake their heads and mournfully say. 
 What a sad case, incurable and pitiful. 
 Remember, O Bacchus, there is only a step between 
 Experting the geological formation and "damn-foolish- 
 ness." 
 It is better, Bacchus, that you spend your time riding 
 Through the mesquite and cactus, with the hot winds of 
 
 Texas 
 Fanning or burning your hardened cheek, than to spend 
 Your time in trying to convince an unregenerate Oil Man 
 Who seems to be hopelessly SANE. 
 
 * Dedicated to well known oil man of similar name, a reported 
 firm believer in tlie witch-hazel rod. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 59 
 
 FAREWELL, DOCTOR BOOZE 
 
 "VJJTE have all done well; we put you in a palace fit for a 
 King; you were placed in the Hall of Fame in St. 
 Louis — or was it the Hall of Infame — your name there 
 was Adolphus Busch. We drank so much that we made 
 your makers work at night at Peoria. Your pathway is 
 strewn with broken wrecks and human derelicts; your 
 meat and drink are the souls of men and the tears of 
 women; you have been soul destroying, and you have 
 put the key of all destruction in your name, and now 
 when you have been routed from your last trench, and 
 your breast has been torn open, we dedicate this little 
 verse to you, Fallen King: 
 
 You have been on the shelf, distinctly yourself, 
 In containers that would fool the best eye; 
 
 Sometimes on your back, you were called apple-jack. 
 On others you looked like hair dye. 
 
 They have brought you to town in a jug that was brown, 
 They have hauled you around in a hearse; 
 
 You've been shipped very often, in a rough-box and coffin. 
 And you've grabbed every cent in our purse. 
 
 From your very beginning, you've been chock full of sin- 
 ning; 
 
 You've joined hands with the loose fitting gowns; 
 And eyes that were dearest, you've made them the blearest, 
 
 Yet, you were handled real kindly in towns. 
 
 But now. Uncle Sam, who is somewhat a man 
 
 When he goes into training to fight; 
 Says now it's my joy to take care of the boy, 
 
 And see that he stays home at night. 
 
60 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 So he says to the distiller, you're a mighty good feller, 
 Like the bed-bug you live a mean way; 
 
 And the farmer's good wheat is for my people to eat. 
 That will build and not take strength away. 
 
 So now. Doctor Booze, we'll bid you adieus, 
 
 O'er your grave a tablet will say: 
 "I have broken up homes, 'mid desolate moans, 
 
 It was hell, but I sure had my day. 
 
 I've enjoyed the great mirth of poisoning the earth; 
 
 How I grin when the little ones cry! 
 How I've gutted each life, bathed in tears of the wife, 
 
 And I grin as I wave you good-bye." 
 
 TEXAS 
 
 TT'S a great big land 'way out yonder, 
 ■*■ With a sky of azure blue; 
 Where the soft big moon is smiling 
 
 On the sparkling drops of dew. 
 Where roses bloom forever, 
 
 And the wine-cups nod to the sun; 
 Some say that God has cursed it. 
 
 Others love its broad fields — 
 
 And I'm one. 
 
 I've mucked and slaved in the North-land, 
 
 I've frozen and toiled in the West. 
 I've followed my dreams in the East-land, 
 
 But I love your broad fields the best. 
 With your great big fields full of silence — 
 
 Some say, 'tis a good land to shun; 
 While others they coo to and pet it, 
 
 And love its broad fields. 
 
 And I'm one. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 61 
 
 Mountains? Yes, there's mountains out yonder. 
 
 Mountains that tower so high. 
 That the men there will bet their last shekel 
 
 That the clouds have to sidetrack to get by. 
 Deserts? Well, I should say so, 
 
 With mirages reflecting the sun. 
 There are some that never would trade it 
 
 For another land — 
 
 And I'm one. 
 
 It's a land that no weakling can live in, 
 
 Unless there's red blood in his veins; 
 Your past is forgiven, forgotten. 
 
 If you'll hold the plow, or the reins; 
 At first, you will hate it like blazes. 
 
 You'll curse your fool self 'cause you've come, 
 But soon you'll be like all others 
 
 And swear its the best land — 
 
 'Neath the sun. 
 
 Love it? Well, I should say so. 
 
 Because all your past is forgot; 
 The castles you've built in dream-land 
 
 Have grown to be real on the spot. 
 Building your share of an empire. 
 
 Rearing her walls stone by stone. 
 In her spell, she grips and she holds you, 
 
 God gave you this land for your own. 
 
62 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 REQUIEM TO THE POWER THAT WAS 
 
 nPHERE is crepe on the door of Congress, 
 
 Some hearts are as heavy as lead, 
 The talons that have throttled progress 
 
 Have been clipped, and the King is dead. 
 "The King is dead, long live the King!" 
 On the Ides of March he was slain; 
 The "Cannon" was spiked by the insurgent wing 
 And they're waiting the funeral train. 
 
 If I was a mourner at Joseph's bier, 
 
 I would take my stand at his head. 
 Where I would be safe to shed a tear 
 
 With the assurance that he was dead. 
 With his dying kick he may vex us. 
 
 It is safer at the old mule's head. 
 A smash in the insurgent solar plexus 
 
 May stand what you've gained on its head. 
 
 "So play the fife lowly, beat the drum slowly," 
 
 Be sure the coffin-lid's screwed down tight; 
 This song we will sing, it won't be unholy. 
 
 There will be a "Hot time somewhere tonight." 
 Satan awaits you, with hand out to greet you. 
 
 Say, come, my old friend, I've waited you long. 
 The light you will see will look rather blue. 
 
 And the Imps will all join in the song. 
 
 THE INVESTIGATING SPIRIT OF OUR 
 CONGRESS 
 
 Scripture: "The same yesterday, today and forever." 
 
 TJJ/E'VE called our dummy Congress to investigate our 
 ^ beef, 
 
 We have asked investigation on the ocean's rocky reef; 
 We have asked investigation on the trust that makes the 
 
 pins. 
 We will ask investigation to the family having twins. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 63 
 
 We've investigated cattle, we've investigated fields. 
 We've investigated cotton crops to see how much it yields; 
 We're investigating houses, we're investigating rents, 
 We're investigating dollars, we're investigating cents. 
 We're investigating forests, we're investigating plants, 
 We're investigating underwear, we're investigating pants; 
 We're investigating boozerine, we're investigating beer. 
 We're investigating grouchiness, we're investigating 
 
 cheer. 
 We're investigating farmers, we're investigating soil, 
 We're investigating pipe lines, we're investigating oil; 
 We're investigating bankers to see why they are rich, 
 But we haven't investigated the man that's in the ditch. 
 We've investigated pulpits, we'll investigate the press. 
 But we've not investigated the man that's in distress; 
 We're investigating sober men, we're investigating drunks 
 We're investigating satchels, we're investigating trunks; 
 When we get thro' investigating the folks will all be broke, 
 So stop it now, for heaven's sake, your actions are a joke. 
 
 THANKSGIVING THOUGHT 
 
 T ET me be thankful for the sunny day. 
 
 Or in the evening glow, or when I hear 
 Your footsteps passing on the way, 
 
 Or your dear voice in trembling near, 
 I find in it my hope, without despair. 
 
 And every absent moment know the need 
 Of that bright star that draws me to the lair 
 
 Of happiness in happy greed. 
 Let me remember all your love in life. 
 
 The fragrance of the rose as wafted by. 
 The smile of welcome from the wife. 
 
 The laugh of children ringing high; 
 The song that's whispered thro' the trees — 
 
 I'm thankful, Lord, for all of these. 
 
64 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 MY FLAG 
 
 ^VrOU give me my life and my liberty, 
 -*■ You wave o'er the land of the free, 
 You've always been right, conserving your might, 
 And now it is checked up to me. 
 
 I love every star in your make-up, 
 
 My father's blood dyed your stripes red; 
 And the white as I know is purer than snow, 
 You've not waved o'er tyranny's head. 
 
 You have called me to fight for your standard 
 
 Of morality, virtue and peace. 
 It seems to me right to go into this fight 
 
 And stay until slavery shall cease. 
 
 I will fight for you now, my old glory. 
 
 And I'll not fight like a paid Prussian slave. 
 
 The enemy I'll claw, right into his maw. 
 And I will follow you into the grave. 
 
 I care not where you will lead me. 
 
 On England's, or France's sacred soil. 
 
 Or Turkey or Russia, Austria or Prussia, 
 For it's liberty and you that I moil. 
 
 For you I will fight to the finish, 
 For you, death is terrorless to me; 
 
 When the day's work is done and the victories won, 
 I will bring you unstained 'cross the sea. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 65 
 
 JUST TIRED 
 
 T AM going to leave it all — 
 ■*- The friend and the foe alike; 
 I have smashed the old "dinner pail" 
 
 Under my heel on the pike. 
 I am leaving the hemlock cities, 
 
 Leaving old pals of my toil. 
 Great heavens, how I've loved it 
 From rousting to boring for oil! 
 
 Years I have toiled in your mire, 
 
 Years I stood 'neath your beams. 
 Delving at night by the flickering light 
 
 For the "oil paying" sand of my dreams. 
 Stood on the derrick's cold top 
 
 When it staggered like a drunk from the strain 
 Of the storm that twisted its girts 
 
 And she whined like a puppy in pain. 
 
 Stood there and tied the frozen line 
 
 By the gleam of the lightning's flash. 
 When no voice could be heard from below. 
 
 No sound save the thunder's loud crash. 
 Stood at the brake in the cold, 
 
 Stood by you, in sadness and mirth. 
 Drank from the pail the bitter black Jav 
 
 But I couldn't drag wealth from your earth. 
 
 My hair has grown gray in your harness. 
 
 How I love you God only can tell; 
 I am leaving you now, and forever 
 
 Trying to get away from your spell 
 That has twisted and bent my manhood — 
 
 (God! how I've worked and perspired!) 
 Fm not quitting because I'm not game. 
 
 But because I've worked hard and I'm tired. 
 
66 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 HIS OIL COUNTRY SHACK 
 
 XT IS shack is as it used to be 
 -^-■-Before he was called away; 
 The wall is covered o'er with maps 
 
 He marked from day to day. 
 The pictures of himself and pals 
 
 Are in their favored spot, 
 A picture of some laughing girls, 
 
 No thought of shell and shot. 
 
 His baseball "mitt" is on the stand, 
 
 His boxing gloves there too. 
 That felt the pressure of his hand 
 
 In happy days of youth; 
 It was the room he long had kept. 
 
 When he was just a scout. 
 With pleasant dreams while he had slept 
 
 But his country called him out. 
 
 A picture of his mother there, 
 
 With the smile his mother wore. 
 And all the things that he held dear 
 
 Are treasured as of yore. 
 Into the room this soldier goes 
 
 To bid his last farewell; 
 His dreams are past, and well he knows 
 
 He must face the shot and shell. 
 
 He looks around the little shack. 
 
 While tears bedim his eyes, 
 And wonders if he will come back 
 
 To Tulsa's azure skies. 
 His mother's picture seems to say. 
 
 Go, do your duty well, 
 I'll watch you tho' I'm far away 
 
 When you face the warrior's Hell. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 67 
 
 ^DER TAG" 
 
 It Is Here 
 
 ^OU have had your foolish fancies, 
 -*- In the visions saw it come; 
 You have reared your sons to slaughter. 
 
 Now they answer to the drum; 
 You have toasted it, you have boasted it 
 
 When your eyes were seeing red. 
 You have trained the men to brain men 
 
 And your fields are strewn with dead. 
 
 You're embracing it, you're facing it, 
 
 Your land is drenched with blood, 
 There's no shaming it, no damning it. 
 
 It's carrying you on its flood. 
 You have thought of it, you have fought for it, 
 
 Made guns with flaming shell; 
 You have sighed for it, you've lied for it. 
 
 Now you've got its belching hell. 
 
 Are you satisfied, now it's ratified? 
 
 What do mothers say 
 Who kneel at night (for boys who fight) 
 
 With streaming eyes to pray? 
 Is it the happy day with its hellish pay 
 
 That lays boys 'neath the sod? 
 When the bugle blows o'er crimson snows, 
 
 How will you meet your God? 
 
 Author's Note— The German officers of the Army and 
 Navy have had a toast "Der Tag," "The Day" for many 
 years. It is here, November 1, 1914. 
 
68 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 THE DEVIL'S SOLILOQUY ON THE KAISER 
 
 I 
 
 THOUGHT I knew some tortures, 
 
 To blast the human soul; 
 The heart aflame, transparent breast, 
 Has made them all recoil. 
 The red hot vat of molten lead, 
 The pitchfork held aloft 
 To pierce the eyeballs of the damned; 
 But this method all is soft. 
 Why, Bill, you take the babies. 
 The wives and sweethearts dear. 
 And mutilate and rape them 
 And you drink their crystal tear; 
 You pierce the tear-stained eyeballs. 
 You mutilate the breast 
 Of babes and virgin mothers. 
 At your methods, Bill, I rest. 
 You poison France's ozone 
 With a gas more dread than mine; 
 Your imps are found on every shore 
 Like reptiles from the slime; 
 You've made me sick at heart. Bill, 
 My domain I will sell; 
 So take it. Bill, in welcome. 
 For I'm ashamed to run my hell. 
 
 This was posted in France during the war by some of 
 the boys in Major George Clulow's Sanitary Corps. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 60 
 
 1909 
 
 "WTHILE strolling along the highway 
 ''^ On a crisp December morn, 
 The trees looked bleak and naked, 
 
 The earth seemed dead and worn; 
 I met an ancient being 
 
 Wending slowly down the way; 
 The face was bearded, wrinkled, 
 
 The head was bald and gray. 
 
 I accosted him quite cheerily. 
 
 Whither goest thou old man? 
 The wind is cold for one so old. 
 
 Have you no kith or clan? 
 Is there none at home to love you. 
 
 No children to love and care? 
 Nowhere a wife to cherish your life. 
 
 Is there not someone, somewhere? 
 
 You know me well, young man, quoth he — 
 
 I once was in my prime; 
 You herald with glee my birth, said he, 
 
 For I'm the year nineteen hundred nine. 
 You will soon welcome nineteen ten, 
 
 And will place to his lips the wine 
 Of hope and joy, to the restless boy. 
 
 And forget nineteen hundred nine. 
 
 I have come to the end; but a month remains. 
 
 Just one page of the twelve to write; 
 The good, the bad, the pain, the joy. 
 
 And then I will say good night. 
 Have you kept your pages clean and white. 
 
 Or are they spotted and blotted with tears? 
 Is it an open book where all can look. 
 
 Can you review with pride the years? 
 
70 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 For this old world I've done my best, 
 No joy did I carelessly blight; 
 
 So leave me alone, my trouble's soon done- 
 To the young and the old, good night. 
 
 TO 1914 
 
 TJURRY up and get you gone, 
 -*--'- You're the worst we ever saw; 
 Strikes and wars, since early dawn 
 
 Clawing, tearing at our maw; 
 What you've done in your short life 
 
 Can't be equalled by any years, 
 With your horrors, blood and strife. 
 
 Orphans made and widows' tears. 
 
 Nineteen fourteen, you've been bad, 
 
 Torn our homes by wrecks and wars; 
 Now you're leaving we are glad. 
 
 For we've had enough of Mars. 
 Maybe you're not all to blame 
 
 For the cruelty of your days, 
 Mayhap the rulers are insane 
 
 That drive to death the willing slaves. 
 
 When behind time's veil you've passed. 
 
 Immersed in blood, in passion rolled. 
 We'll feel your sting while the world shall last- 
 
 That's why we laugh as you grow old. 
 My God! Old Year, what a mad carouse, 
 
 Wasting hours in vain dispute, 
 The harlot war has been your spouse, 
 
 No year has borne such bitter fruit. 
 
 You've only got a few days more 
 
 To redden pages that once were white; 
 
 The peaceful happy smile you wore 
 
 Soon was stricken by frenzied blight; 
 
LUBRICATIONS 71 
 
 And yet you smirked and smiled in glee, 
 
 Before the spot-light of life's stage, 
 And crooned your song in ecstasy, 
 
 Which turned too soon to awful rage. 
 
 With all your crimes and licensed lust. 
 
 Your scattering whirlwind, fire and sword. 
 That fills the cup with crumbled dust 
 
 Of that well meaning, restless horde; 
 We cannot blame it all on you. 
 
 For vision's greed is 'filled desire; 
 You gave some happiness, it is true, 
 
 To others hell — like a soul on fire. 
 
 THE WAIL OF THE FAT MAN 
 
 T'D like to be a slender man 
 -*- And wear a starched cravat; 
 I'd like to look real spick and span. 
 But gee! I can't, for I'm too fat. 
 
 I'd like to look real slick and clean, 
 
 With starched-up collar and all o' that, 
 
 But when I do I feel so mean 
 It's like a poultice, I'm so fat. 
 
 I'd like the girls to say he's cute. 
 When on the street with sailor hat. 
 
 But they just turn their dainty snoot, 
 I'm so damned hot, I am so fat. 
 
 I want a club when on the street, 
 A policeman's mace or baseball bat. 
 
 To kill all idiots that I meet. 
 
 Who says, "Ain't it fierce for one so fat?' 
 
72 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 GIVE AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE 
 
 T^HE picture gives richness for years and for years, 
 -*- Yet forever its beauty will shine; 
 It pleases the eyes, tho' it fills them with tears, 
 But 'tis never affected by time. 
 
 The rose sheds its fragrance to the breezes all day. 
 
 The flower it can never despoil, 
 'Till the hand of ripe age picks its petals away, 
 
 And they drop, giving life to the soil. 
 
 The rough marble yields to the sculptor's hard steel 
 While he creates a child of his brain; 
 
 It fills the dull room, in a sweet mute appeal. 
 But for years and for years 'twill remain. 
 
 The heart of the man is no less divine 
 Than the picture, the statue or rose. 
 
 Each give of their beauty, and thro' ages shine. 
 So give — take your pay — in repose. 
 
 TO JAMES WHITGOMB RILEY ON REGEIV 
 ING THE DEGREE OF LL. D. 
 
 TTOW are you. Doctor Riley? 
 -*-•*• I trust you're well, today; 
 Them Hoosier College fellers 
 
 Have added to your name they say; 
 It's gwine to be middlin' hard on us. 
 
 But God knows it ain't a sin 
 To have to call you, Doctor, 
 
 'Stead of just plain Jim. 
 
 But say, old pal, they jist can't help 
 
 Givin' you honorable degrees. 
 And if the boys that knew you 
 
 Could distribute them LL. D.'s 
 
LUBRICATIONS 73 
 
 They would take their golden nuggets 
 
 As they yank 'em from the shock, 
 And pawn them with their jewelry. 
 
 Put their household goods in hock, 
 To pay the earthly tribute 
 
 To a character so fine. 
 Who wrote in loving memory — 
 
 "That Old Sweetheart of Mine." 
 
 But if they place the alphabet 
 
 At the end of that ole name, 
 And each and every letter 
 
 Comprised a wreath of fame — 
 We know that that would be too small, 
 
 And not a soul would mock 
 At the pen that wrote that glowing verse — 
 
 "When the Fodder's in the Shock." 
 
 Jist following the good old Scriptures 
 
 By conferring laurels on you. 
 For in that good old book of ours 
 
 It says, "Honor to whom honor is due." 
 So we uncover our heads to you 
 
 Because of your lofty soul. 
 And love you for remembering your youth 
 
 When you wrote "The Swimmin' Hole." 
 
 In talking it over the other night. 
 
 We thought it powerful kind 
 That they show their appreciation 
 
 Before you leave this world behind. 
 America has had never an equal 
 
 To you, James, in rhythmic art 
 In that inimitable style of yours. 
 
 You get into nature's heart. 
 The Hoosier poet has earned his fame. 
 
 But before he's laid on the shelf. 
 We hope for more like that pathetic verse, 
 
 "Good bye, Jim, Take Keer of Yourself." 
 
74 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 MAY 30, 1908 
 
 pLACE garlands of sympathy on the hero's grave, 
 -*- Woven in tenderness with hands that are old, 
 But once were so shapely, strong and so brave 
 That they blended a nation, in freedom's mould. 
 
 Lay on their biers the red, white and blue. 
 With its cluster of stars, pure and white, 
 
 The emblem of freedom, that waved in their view 
 When the bugler called them to fight. 
 
 Ground arms, stand with uncovered head. 
 
 Fear not for the manly tear, 
 But think of the glory of the death instead. 
 
 For he smiles in heaven as you honor him here. 
 
 He sees but the fragment of the army of yore 
 Thro' mist of eternity, as the years onward roll, 
 
 He stands with outstretched hands on the shore. 
 To welcome old comrades at the call of the roll. 
 
 He loved the old flag, my comrades, as you. 
 
 And all thro' that fratricidal strife. 
 He was not found wanting, he ever was true, 
 
 And to keep it unsoiled, gave his life. 
 
 The grand army's ranks are thinning apace, 
 'Tis but the remains of the conquering array, 
 
 That passed in review, with powder stained face, 
 After God gave them a victorious day. 
 
 But for some he has now sounded the taps, 
 
 Those we are honoring today; 
 Each year we will don the worn old traps, 
 
 'Till we awake at the great reveille. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 75 
 
 THE PANTS THAT MOTHER MADE 
 
 fYTE can talk of home and mother, as through this life 
 ^ we go, 
 Of the rich things that no other would attempt to make 
 
 them so; 
 How we used to rob the larder, how we raved about the 
 
 cake. 
 But we never even whisper 'bout the pants that Ma could 
 make. 
 
 All boys who on a farm have lived until the age of ten, 
 
 Have something to be thankful for when they are grown- 
 up men; 
 
 They can thank the Lord for the Jersey cow, also the 
 dairy maid 
 
 That twitted us about our jeans, those pants that Mother 
 made. 
 
 Mother was an artist when it came to making pies; 
 
 The bread she made was lovely, brown and light; 
 
 She could bind the injured toe, dry the tear up in your 
 
 eyes. 
 Teach you how to say your little prayer at night; 
 She could tell you Injun stories 'till she made you all 
 
 afraid — 
 Give us back those happy days, less the pants that Mother 
 
 made. 
 
 I remember when but a boy, I think about sixteen, 
 
 A neighbor girl I longed for, that was witty, bright and 
 
 keen. 
 It seems to be but yesterday when Mother scrubbed my 
 
 neck, 
 And I soaped my hair and brushed it 'till it was nice and 
 
 slick. 
 
76 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 I started out with good intent to win that country maid, 
 And wore the best clothes that I had — the pants that 
 Mother made. 
 
 And when I looked in the old cracked glass that hung 
 beside the door, 
 
 I thought how very well I looked and needed nothing 
 more, 
 
 Except to say that little speech that God and I only knew; 
 
 And I started whistling from the house to see my lovely 
 Lu. 
 
 How Willie came to miss the goal while out on that pa- 
 rade, 
 
 Because they fit so blooming tight — those pants that 
 Mother made. 
 
 The speech was quite original; I had worked it up with 
 
 zest; 
 I met her, choked and stammered — God only knew the 
 
 rest. 
 I tried to hold her little hand; I knew she was very shy, 
 I thought a kiss would help some, so at that I made a try; 
 And in the wrestle that followed, poor Willie made a slip. 
 When, holy horrors ! from the rear he heard an awful rip. 
 His fondest hopes were blighted as he sat there scorning 
 
 aid, 
 Those pants were ripped from stem to stern — the ones 
 
 that Mother made. 
 
 Well, he sat there sullen, silent, 'till the sun had gone to 
 
 rest. 
 When he left his Lulu's presence he had his face toward 
 
 the west; 
 It became his embarrassing duty to walk backward out of 
 
 sight. 
 So with his back to the eastward, Willie edged away that 
 night; 
 
LUBRICATIONS 77 
 
 He had lost his time ai)d sweetmeats, for he'd a won that 
 
 country maid, 
 If they had bravely stood the strain — the pants that 
 
 Mother made. 
 
 Ofttimes the slightest accident turns the tide in a man's 
 
 career. 
 Had those pants stood up staunchly, I'd have won that 
 
 little dear, 
 Together with a section of Illinois' most fertile soil; 
 And I'd have been husking pumpkins, 'stead of boring 
 
 here for oil. 
 But only to the one who knew my speech so well that 
 
 night. 
 Can we trust our future, knowing that He is always right. 
 So I look upon it as my fate to have had on them tight 
 
 breeches, 
 I might have broken her young heart, instead of bursting 
 
 stitches. 
 
 Mothers all are jewels, loving well their reckless boys. 
 Their memory's ever sacred, and our love without alloys. 
 The mistakes she made in tailoring were all covered by 
 
 the aid 
 She gave when you tore the bosom from the pants that 
 she had made. 
 
78 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 BILL 
 
 TJ7HY, Bill, it seems just the other day 
 '* That you came here with us to stay; 
 I was interested from the start 
 To see how well you played your part. 
 An' I always loved you — didn't I, Bill? 
 Then you got sick at the start of the hill, 
 An' I sat up nights and worried so 
 For fear that you would never grow. 
 
 Didn't I, Bill? 
 
 An' then that time, Bill, that you and I 
 Went to the Doctor — wait, there's a tear in my eye- 
 It hurt me so to hear you cry; 
 Then you got boils that came nigh 
 Killing you outright, as sure as you're born. 
 And some of those nights were long 'till morn; 
 But you just fought it to the bitter end. 
 And bye-and-bye you began to mend. 
 
 Didn't you. Bill? 
 
 And then you came back, fat and plump, 
 And Bill, you had grown to quite a lump; 
 And you smiled and wriggled into my heart, 
 Yes, you did. Bill, you're mighty smart. 
 Do you know I was dreaming the other night, 
 What if angels came all decked in white, 
 Say come with us where all is still 
 I 'woke and said, "Don't take my Bill!" 
 
 Didn't I, Bill? 
 
BILL 
 
LUBRICATIONS 79 
 
 IF YOU WERE MINE 
 
 TF you were mine I would not care 
 *-If winter days were foul or fair; 
 I'd work thro' summer's scorching sun. 
 Thro' autumn rains, or mud, or slime — 
 If 
 you 
 were 
 
 mine. 
 
 If you were mine you'd be my queen. 
 An angel from the world unseen; 
 Your lightest wish would be my will 
 Thro' cloudy days the sun would shine — 
 
 If 
 you 
 were 
 
 mine. 
 
 If you were mine the birds would sing 
 With sweetest song the forest ring; 
 The sparkling stream would laugh and play 
 Their soothing words in rhyme — 
 
 If 
 you 
 
 were 
 
 mine. 
 
 If you were mine this Christmas night, 
 My dreams are true, I see the light 
 Of Bethlehem's star, a child is given; 
 The welkin rings through every clime 
 You're not just here — 
 
 But 
 you 
 
 are 
 
 mine. 
 
80 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 THE GIRL IN DIXIE 
 
 TTjOWN in the land of Dixie where the cotton blooms 
 
 ^-^ and blows, 
 
 Where the sun is bright and gleaming, and the crystal 
 
 rivers flow; 
 Where the maids are bright and pretty, with teeth of 
 
 sparkling pearl, 
 With hair of raven luster, dreamy eyes beneath the curl; 
 The nose a Grecian profile, a ruby shapely mouth — 
 She is the handsome child of Dixie, a native of the South. 
 
 In her dreamy eyes so liquid, I have tried to read my fate 
 When the evening sun was setting, or when the hour was 
 
 growing late. 
 I have painted her a picture, of the home with joy and 
 
 bliss, 
 I would barter all my birthright for the joy of one sweet 
 
 kiss; 
 For a drink of luscious nectar from her coral shapely 
 
 mouth, 
 I would eat the blazing sunshine that smiles down in the 
 
 South. 
 
 I would eat the blazen sunshine, I would dive in Hell's 
 
 abyss, 
 I would drain the mighty ocean if commanded by that 
 
 Miss; 
 I would sigh, I would cry, I would drink Red River dry — 
 But not for her or any other woman would I go off and 
 
 die. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 81 
 
 MEMORIES OF VALENTINE 
 
 /^NE time I wrote a tender line — 
 
 A tender line. 
 I wrote it to a maiden fair 
 With tender eyes and woozy hair; 
 She was my Valentine, 
 My Valentine. 
 
 Her father he was old and mean, 
 
 No tenderloin. 
 And when he saw the line I wrote, 
 He said, "Your hip and thigh I'll smote;" 
 And then he entered on the scene, 
 
 O, tender-loin. 
 
 He grabbed me where my collar slantz. 
 
 The ugly brute. 
 He tried to poke my black eyes out. 
 He wrung my neck, turned me about 
 And kicked me in the pantz 
 
 With heavy fute (foot). 
 
 Years have gone since that tender line — 
 
 O, tenderloin! 
 That foot it quenched the burning fire. 
 And since that time I've no desire 
 To write a tender line, my Valentine, 
 
 Sweet Valentine. 
 
82 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 WHEN MOTHER'S GONE 
 
 THE floors are covered o'er with dust. 
 The stove is getting red with rust, 
 The dog he howls the livelong day, 
 Since Mother's gone away. 
 
 The dust is thick upon my chair, 
 There's cobwebs sticking in my hair; 
 The blooming hens have ceased to lay 
 Since Mother's gone away. 
 
 The grass has grown long and dry. 
 The old hens cackle, but they lie; 
 The ice man cheats me every day 
 Since Mother's gone away. 
 
 There is trouble here, to make me drink. 
 With scrubbing floors, and rugs, and sink; 
 I stepped upon a tack today. 
 It hurt me worse since Ma's away. 
 
 No man can ever live alone. 
 When Mother's gone he gnaws a bone; 
 His bare feet trod thro' sand and clay 
 When Mother's gone away. 
 
 Come back, come back from 'way up North, 
 We miss you, girl, we know your worth; 
 We'll drudge and toil the livelong day, 
 If you'll please hurry home to stay. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 83 
 
 AT FIFTY-FIVE 
 
 A BROKEN and battered old derelict 
 -^^ On the out-going tide afloat, 
 Abandoned by youth in the conflict, 
 
 A rudderless, aimless old boat; 
 Beaten by seas of merciless time. 
 
 The hand is old at the wheel; 
 The eye cannot the shoals define 
 
 That youth instinctively feel. 
 
 At fifty-five the dream is o'er, 
 
 It is now the gray of Fall; 
 God held out to you his bountiful store. 
 
 But it is now beyond recall. 
 The rose has exuded its fragrance to you 
 
 The petals have dropped by the way, 
 The sunshine, the rain, the tremulous dew 
 
 Cannot prolong its sweet life one day. 
 
 The youthful brook with babbling song 
 
 Has swelled the river's breast. 
 And now majestically swings along 
 
 To mingle with the ocean's crest. 
 The fuels consumed by time's cruel hand. 
 
 The heart has no rhythmic tone; 
 You're only a derelict, pathetic or grand, 
 
 As you come, so you go, all alone. 
 
84 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 A WARNING TO COLORED BROTHERS 
 
 ■pjE comet am a-comin', you niggers mus' look out — 
 -*-^ It's gwine to bus' dis worl' in two and put de lights 
 
 all out; 
 De passon ob de colored church say de sun will sure 
 
 stan' still, 
 Den you chilly blooded niggers will get heated 'til you fill; 
 De odder night I hearn it roar jes' like a water spout, 
 Dai comet's gwine to git ye, 'f yo' don' watch out. 
 
 So Brudder George and Brudder Bill, you'd better jine de 
 
 church ; 
 And Sister Sal and Sister Sue don' be left in de lurch; 
 An' Deacon Sam de time have cum to put dat rooster in 
 White Man Henry's chicken-coops, for stealin' am a sin; 
 An' loosen up your old stiff j'ints and pray and sing and 
 
 shout — 
 For de comet's gwine to get you ef you don' watch out. 
 An' Brudder Eaf, de Lawd done seen yo' shootin' craps 
 
 las' night, 
 An' saw you flip de dice by hand — you know dat dat's not 
 
 right; 
 An' Sister Sue, de Lawd done saw you swipe dat bolt of 
 
 lace 
 An' put it 'neath yo'r apron when the clerk done turned 
 
 his face; 
 He sees it on yo'r petty-coat when you go gaddin' 'bout — 
 And the comet's gwine to get you ef you don' watch out, 
 Yo' men folks been a singin' "Will dere be stars in my 
 
 crown?" 
 An' thinkin' of a yaller gal dat lives jes' out en town; 
 An' you, Amanda Melia Brown, dat in our choir sings, 
 Ye'd better put yo'r mind on Gawd, 'stead of hats an' 
 
 things; 
 For de comet am a-comin', yo'll hear St. Peter shout — 
 Dat comet's gwine to git ye, ef yo' don' watch out. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 85 
 
 WHO'S TO BLAME 
 
 LED from the path of virtue, 
 When the shadows had grown long, 
 Down where the cardinal lights gleam, 
 
 Down 'mid the ribald's song; 
 Petted by saucy harlots 
 
 Who looked with drink-crazed eyes 
 Into the chasm, eternity. 
 
 Away from the smiling skies. 
 
 Into that chamber of horrors. 
 
 Thro' its vile-smelling stench 
 Of unclean and blood-smelling women, 
 
 The waiter a vile-smelling wench; 
 Saw we all this in one evening. 
 
 While the moon hid her face in her shame. 
 Tell me, old man, where's the pleasure 
 
 To the man who claims he is sane. 
 
 Who is to blame for the brothel— 
 
 Where shall we fasten the crime? 
 Just look in your heart, old fellow, 
 
 Yours and others, and mine; 
 It's our palace of Hell— don't forget it— 
 
 The reaper reaps just what he sows; 
 Posterity may still be in dream-land. 
 
 Recruits from our own home. "Who knows?' 
 
86 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 GOING HOME 
 
 CAY, did you ever start for home 
 *^ At the pull of the old heartstring, 
 To see the paths where you used to roam 
 
 And drink from the old rock spring? 
 The train that bore you homeward 
 
 Seemed to creep 'long like a snail, 
 The click of the wheels singing onward 
 
 As they jumped the splice in the rail; 
 And you came in sight of Bear Creek, 
 
 Where you've sat and fished and fished. 
 And in your boyhood fancies. 
 
 You have dreamed, and wished, and wished. 
 That the fairy that you've read about 
 
 Would come with his team of greys, 
 And carry you off to fairyland, 
 
 A prince to end your days. 
 And when your journey's ended 
 
 And the train is standing still. 
 No old friends there to meet you 
 
 And your eyes begin to fill 
 At the absence of some friendly face, 
 
 At the town so old and worn. 
 That you ask yourself the question- 
 Is this where I was born? 
 Well, you've dreamed your dreams 
 
 And the picture don't bring joy. 
 The things that you are seeing 
 
 Are not seen with the eyes of a boy. 
 But, O kind God, how my heart ached 
 
 When I stood before the door. 
 To be met with the face of a stranger 
 
 That I'd never seen before; 
 I leave the old home with its memories 
 
 And go to the old church lot, 
 Reading these lines on the marble: 
 
 "Gone, but not forgot." 
 
T 
 
 LUBRICATIONS 87 
 
 TWAIN IS DEAD 
 
 On the Death of Mark Twain (Samuel L. Clemens) 
 
 'HE bells have tolled — his sun has set; 
 
 The line of friends is passing by 
 With leaden tread of funeral step; 
 
 The wind is whispering a lonely sigh 
 For poor, for rich, the great, the small — 
 
 The nation stands with lowered head. 
 And says he's gone beyond recall, 
 
 His name revered, tho' Twain is dead. 
 
 He loved the world — the world loved him — 
 
 He made it laugh with joyous mirth; 
 In man he ne'er condemned the sin 
 
 To him inherent from his birth; 
 But when he plied his witching pen 
 
 Flowers bloomed o'er the invalid bed. 
 They forget their pain and again were men — 
 
 What's left for them since Twain is dead? 
 
 Gone where angels always sing. 
 
 He'll find a harp that's tuned aright. 
 And to those airy visions bring 
 
 A spirit just as pure and white; 
 'Mid angel's song he'll find a place 
 
 With jeweled crown upon his head, 
 The same sweet smile upon his face — 
 
 He lives forever, though Twain is dead. 
 
88 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 THANKSGIVING 
 
 'T'HE roar of a war is in our ears, 
 -■- And our hearts are sad within. 
 Have we purchased our peace with craven fears? 
 If so, it's the unpardonable sin. 
 
 Can WE thank God, the bloody strife 
 
 Is across the rolling wave? 
 And shirk a duty dearer than life 
 
 And thank God for the gold we save? 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 
 
 TF you should ask of any teacher — 
 -*-What is best of all the treasures? 
 How of good things get your measures 
 Filled to full and overflowing; 
 If you ask him, he will tell you: 
 Not from drink, and wine get pleasures. 
 Not from gold, or silk, or satin. 
 Not from Greek, or French, or Latin; 
 But from friendship pure and holy. 
 From a tree with life's fruit ripened, 
 Branches of fine men and women. 
 He would tell you without stipend 
 How God made in his own image 
 Men, and women loyal, loyal; 
 Left it not to families royal. 
 But to all his lovely creatures, 
 Kind of heart and sweet of features; 
 Made he all the men and women 
 With a hallowed brow of light. 
 This the toast that now I greet you, 
 To renew the bond of friendship, 
 Faithful as the stars of night. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 89 
 
 GANANDAIGUA IN A FRENZY 
 
 'Y'OU do not laugh and sing and play 
 -*- With lips serene as yesterday; 
 Instead, your screaming white-caps yell, 
 Like a human soul in the depths of Hell. 
 Are you jealous of the drops of rain 
 That nourish the rose on the sun-baked plain, 
 Or are you scared at the lightning's flash, 
 Are you hysterical at the thunder's crash? 
 For shame, for shame, on you, sweet lake: 
 To all your beauty and rhythm forsake. 
 And stick out your tongue like a naughty kid 
 Because "Old Jove" pulls off the lid. 
 Gome back and sing your sweetest lay, 
 I like you better as yesterday. 
 
 WHY NOT? 
 
 /^NCE I was a happy fellow, 
 ^-^In gladsome spring or autumn yellow- 
 Hunting for some good in man, 
 Something after God's own plan; 
 Picked up Tom, who seemed so fine, 
 Thought I'd found a man divine; 
 But beneath his velvet hide, 
 Was something that his face denied. 
 In his image God had made 
 That was all his stock and trade; 
 When I saw the life within, 
 'Twas a seething mass of sin. 
 Then I tried George, Dick and Dan 
 For an honest Godly man; 
 In each case was faults, I found; 
 Some apparent, some profound; 
 And I thought why prick a bubble. 
 
90 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 Why hunt disappointments, trouble? 
 
 For in every man I meet, 1 1 
 
 And in women on the street, 1 
 
 I find something good and clean, 
 
 Then why pick out that which is mean? 
 
 Then I ceased to look within; 
 Looked for truth instead of sin; 
 Was surprised the pure in mind — 
 NEVER will I look behind. 
 
 WHEN I AM FIFTY AND YOU ARE FIVE 
 
 W/"HEN I am fifty, and you are five, 
 
 " And the world to you is bright; 
 
 As the morning sun unveils the east 
 
 And pushes back the night; 
 And birds sing blithely — and flowers bloom 
 
 'Till the air with perfume's rife. 
 And your golden hair has no line of care — 
 
 For I am fifty — and you are five. 
 
 When I am fifty, and you are five, 
 
 And you have never a care; 
 While I see trees with their yellow leaves 
 
 Standing bleak and bare; 
 The spring of youth is beyond recall. 
 
 It is parched and blackened by strife. 
 And the "Night-birds" call— to me 'tis fall— 
 
 For I am fifty — while you are five. 
 
 When I am fifty, and you are five. 
 
 With you life's journey's begun. 
 The rose strewn path of youth is yours. 
 
 While my life's journey's done. 
 May the darkest night show a ray of light 
 
 That will brighten your path of life, 
 And zephyrs croon, to a life in bloom — 
 
 When you are fifty and five. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 91 
 
 THAT PRE-NUPTIAL TIN SHOWER 
 
 TTOW dear to your heart is this, your "tin shower," 
 -■-■- When the "stew-pans" are "stewed" and the buckets 
 
 turn pail; 
 While the din in the house is like the clang of a power, 
 Or a dog racing by with some "cans" on his tail. 
 
 The tinware I hand you is bright and full measure 
 When filled with the happiness drawn from life's spring. 
 May you look at this bucket as full of sweet pleasures. 
 And "can" all the strife with the songs that you sing. 
 
 VIOLETS 
 
 'T'HE buds I send are from a friend, 
 ■*- They match your eyes of blue. 
 They carry joy from your dear old boy 
 Because he's found you true. 
 
 Their lingering perfume gladdens your room 
 When the petals are withered and gray; 
 
 Yet the message they bring is a voice of spring 
 And birds sing their roundelay. 
 
 I plucked them while here, for you, my Dear, 
 They'll be crushed, when they come, out flat, 
 
 But the love they bring in life's the thing, 
 From a guy you know that is fat. 
 
92 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 WOULDN'T THIS BE A DREAM? 
 
 TF the sun was always smiling, 
 -*- Floating down life's turbid stream, 
 Filled with scented hours beguiling — 
 Wouldn't that be a dream? 
 
 If your friends were all in harmony, 
 And the milk of kindness cream. 
 
 And life would have no irony — 
 Wouldn't that be a dream? 
 
 When you wouldn't need a backbone. 
 Nor a safe your gold to screen; 
 
 The judge would burn his Blackstone — 
 Wouldn't that be a dream? 
 
 And your banker greets you smiling, 
 Renews the old note calm, serene. 
 
 With nary a curse reviling — 
 That sure would be a dream. 
 
 If politics were played near square, 
 Where the deck is plainly seen, 
 
 And keep the promise given fair — 
 Wow! that would be a dream. 
 
 Some happy days of life are spent 
 
 In building castles fair; 
 In youth our dreams are pleasure bent, 
 
 Like bubble filled with air. 
 
 In middle life we've drunk the gall, 
 The fruit, the wine, the cream. 
 
 But the yellow days are best of all — 
 Life's sunsets evening dream. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 93 
 
 THE HOME ON THE RIVER HILL 
 
 TTOW I have dreamed and dreamed to possess my 
 
 ■*--*- father's estate, 
 
 When the evening twilight is fading, and the day is grow- 
 ■ ing late! 
 
 ] How I have conjured in my memory the scenes of rock 
 I and rill 
 
 I And a mirage passes before me — of the home on the river 
 and hill. 
 
 I love it, I love it, with a love that's ever true. 
 
 From its tangled wooded pathway to the starry dome 
 
 of blue, 
 Where the cricket chirps at the window when all but he 
 
 is still. 
 And mother's evening song is heard at the home on river 
 
 hill! 
 
 The stranger sees no beauty that lived on that hallowed 
 
 spot. 
 Yet the picture I see in life's evening, is by a Master 
 
 wrought. 
 At the faces painted on memory's tile my eyes begin to fill 
 There is one of the dear old Mother — at the home on the 
 river hill. 
 
 God took pains in designing, builded it rugged and grand. 
 Colors that blend. Oh! Divinely, painted by the Infinite 
 
 hand; 
 I've traveled along the great white way — drank from the 
 
 hidden still, 
 But I'm going back to the home, sweet home — that home 
 
 on the river hill. 
 
94 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 FATHER'S GOT A JOB 
 
 IVrO more he'll cook delicious cakes 
 
 -•-^ In the late or early morn; 
 
 No more he'll sleep, 'til the sun awakes 
 
 With its golden beams so warm; 
 No more he'll pose as a wealthy guy. 
 
 No more poor farmers rob; 
 Up with the sun, will be his cry, 
 
 For father's got a job. 
 
 It's been so long that he forgets 
 
 When last he had a place, 
 It seemed he'd join the never-sweats 
 
 And loafed around with grace; 
 No more he'll join the kids at play 
 
 Or leave home with a sob; 
 No more at home he'll be a jay, 
 
 For father's got a job. 
 
 His daughter now at school can say 
 
 With sincere and girlish laughter. 
 My father toils from day to day, 
 
 Has ceased to be a grafter. 
 He'll now come home, cross like a bear, 
 
 From playing with a snob; 
 The house will all be hushed with fear. 
 
 Since father's got a job. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 95 
 
 SPRING TROUBLES 
 
 TJ7HEN the springtime skies are bluest, 
 " And maidens' hearts are truest, 
 And the birds are mating, singing all the while; 
 
 When trees are blooming their bloomest 
 And daylight comes the soonest — 
 It's April, take your fishing pole and smile. 
 
 When wifey's temper's the meanest (This don't go if 
 she hears it) — 
 
 And she cleans the house the cleanest. 
 Then she makes you beat the dusty microbe rugs; 
 
 When you climb the ladder highest 
 You stand like a highdivest, 
 You are cleaning out the microscopic bugs. 
 
 When your lyre is the lyrest. 
 
 And your troubles are the direst. 
 And you're falling over chairs that's in the way. 
 
 And you trip and fall the fallingest. 
 With language that's appallingest, 
 Then you want to kick sweet April into May. 
 
 When your meals are always coldest. 
 
 And your wife looks years the oldest, 
 And the beds all look like scrapheaps, by ging! 
 
 You long for day's completest, 
 When wifey smiles the sweetest, 
 Before housecleaning days in early spring. 
 
96 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 HALLOWE'EN 
 
 'T'HIS is the night when Fairies light 
 ■- And gnomes and brownies dance, 
 In yellow days — their splendors blaze — 
 
 While their spritely ponies prance; 
 The moon is hid — as if a lid 
 
 Concealed her pallid beam, 
 For turnip night and jack-o-light — 
 
 For this is Hallowe'en. 
 
 Along Kanawha's winding banks, 
 
 'Mid tanglewood and dell, 
 The sprite that rules the marshal ranks 
 
 And o'er us casts his spell — 
 Shows us the place where lover's face 
 
 Is mirrored in the stream, 
 The face of sweetheart there is traced — 
 
 If wished on Hallowe'en. 
 
 This is the night when jack-o-light 
 
 Casts lurid flickering flame; 
 When chestnuts ripe are baked aright 
 
 And each is given name; 
 With its noisy pops, the chestnut hops 
 
 At your future spouse, I ween, 
 With blushes red and lowered head— 
 
 You are pledged on Hallowe'en. 
 
^^ 
 
 ^; 
 
 LADDIE 
 
LUBRICATIONS 97 
 
 LADDIE 
 
 T AD is dead? Well, well, that's a sin, 
 -*^ The best friend man ever had; 
 He always looked for what's within, 
 
 Tho' clothes were ragged, torn and bad; 
 Lad really did not have a care 
 Of how his friends would part their hair. 
 
 Once I heard him bark with glee 
 
 And run, and yelp, and jump with joy; 
 
 And one would wonder how that he 
 Would love that ragged, dirty boy. 
 
 But Lad just looked at the heart within 
 
 And that was what Lad liked in him. 
 
 Lad was just an ornery, curly cur, 
 
 A mongrel dog, not of the royal brood; 
 
 Yet on his loyalty there never was a slur, 
 For thro' the ages past was honest blood. 
 
 Lad was just a mangy hybrid, it is true, 
 
 But can Lad's faithful acts be said of you? 
 
 Lad won no ribbon at a canine show. 
 
 He never won a bloody fight; 
 He was part and parcel of all the dogs you know, 
 
 But 'neath his flea-bit hide his heart was right. 
 There may be some advantages in one's birth, 
 But nothing better than Lad's on earth. 
 
 And when Lad came to take the step, 
 
 He never thought of boys who canned his tail, 
 
 But shivering at the door he'd yelp. 
 
 When opened, whine his mournful tale. 
 
 And somehow thro' that veil and fog 
 
 He'll find the heaven for an honest dog. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 
 
 SPRING 
 
 T^HE wind has been in the South for a couple of days. 
 -*- It is mellowed by the sunshine and my old body is 
 being warmed by its breath. The sweet-voiced songsters 
 are beginning to carol from a winter of silence, and the 
 bright, beautiful laughing child of Spring with her fra- 
 grance, her variegation in coloring, is here again, to love 
 and enjoy. The Muse whispers to the receptive ear: 
 
 O gentle, soothing, balmy spring, 
 
 A million tongues your praises sing; 
 
 'Mid bursting buds the blue birds flit, 
 
 And calves are peeping through the slit 
 
 Of Paris gowns, neath silken hose; 
 
 The neck is bare where the wish-bone grows, 
 
 And if there is no other thing 
 
 These signs would indicate it's Spring. 
 
 OUR DAY DREAMS 
 
 TN the sanctity of our little home, 
 -*- Away from the toil and strife; 
 Our day dreams come when we are alone. 
 They're the happiest moments of life. 
 
 The dreams we have twixt downy sheets 
 May be hazy, or lurid, or wild; 
 
 Our battles are fought, we feel defeat. 
 
 Our day dreams are soothing and mild. 
 
 No holocaust we see or business care, 
 
 No falls down, down below; 
 No maniac roams with disheveled hair 
 
 In our day dreams while the zephyrs blow. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 99 
 
 The pictures we draw in fancy there, 
 
 The castles we build will stand; 
 The fragrance we breathe of flowers rare 
 
 Are nurtured by fancy's hand. 
 
 The old easy chair, the grim pictured wall 
 Where in day dreams we often trace. 
 
 The name of loved ones that answered the call, 
 And our fancy takes shape of a face. 
 
 Tho' time has traced his lines in her hair. 
 The sweet old face that love imparts; 
 
 You start when you find her standing there. 
 The best the bravest of all sweethearts. 
 
 ALL HIS LABORS ARE VAIN 
 
 T AM the man that wrote the song 
 -■- On "Kitty's wooden leg"; 
 'Twas I that made the "Goose" 
 That laid the "golden egg." 
 
 I'm the man that trained the Giants 
 
 In all points of the game 
 That put them on the highest round 
 
 Of baseball's ladder of fame. 
 
 It was I that invented the auto. 
 
 Also the pneumatic brake 
 That will stop a car in thirty feet. 
 
 Unless there's a life at stake. 
 
 'Twas I that made old Morgan rich 
 
 By not following my advice; 
 I started the panic of last November 
 
 Betting on loaded dice. 
 
100 LUBRICA TIONS 
 
 I wrote all Harding's special messages 
 
 He sent to Congress this year; 
 But my brain factory was on the bumsky 
 
 When I made the brains that were there. 
 
 I snatched electricity from the blue realm, 
 
 Broke it to drive and ride; 
 I made the machine to register the fare, 
 
 But the conductor's hands are all tied. 
 
 I invented the mill for distilling the juice 
 
 Of Eden's forbidden fruit 
 That made Mother Eve make dresses; 
 
 I designed the Merry Widow so cute. 
 
 It is true that I am an author of note. 
 
 Of rhymes and philosophical freaks. 
 But by the long beard of the prophet of old, 
 
 I deny writing that story "Three Weeks." 
 
 You will see by the above that I'm a wonderful man 
 In physics and with my versatile pen, 
 
 But I doff my lid to that inventive mind 
 
 That has designed the double-barrelled hen. 
 
 Moral — It is better to accomplish one great act in 
 life than to attempt a score. 
 
 TO OUR GOOD FRIEND $$$$ 
 
 XT AVE you read about the microbes 
 -•^ That infest the dollar bill? 
 Ninety million so they say 
 
 On each bill in the till; 
 Since reading all about it — 
 
 And disease don't seem remote — 
 I've decided to drop Friend William, 
 
 And use a nice clean note, 
 
LUBRICATIONS 101 
 
 You can get easy at any bank 
 
 So new and clean and white, 
 But the ones that drive me crazy 
 
 Are the ones that are written "at sight." 
 So what's the use to worry 
 
 About the insects that's on Bill? 
 When a feller never has one 
 
 His simple wants to fill. 
 But I have always noticed 
 
 That the man with the largest wad 
 Is usually among the last ones 
 
 To be called to meet his God. 
 So the Doctor better come again, 
 
 Or stick to his box of pills. 
 For they're indeed, a friend in need. 
 
 Those dirty, microbic bills. 
 
 THE OLD BUCKET SHOP 
 
 TTOW dear to their hearts is the wire they attended, 
 -"- When the blooming old world took a rose tinted view; 
 How we squirmed and we kicked at the pin that they 
 bended 
 That broke us in purse, when we left the office quite 
 blue. 
 The face they recall of the small "Tin-Horn Gambler" 
 As he dragged from his pockets the shekels so new, 
 They turned him loose sad, yet a homeless wanderer. 
 The thieving old bucket shop, the crooked old bucket 
 
 shop. 
 The entrancing old bucket shop that we all have 
 known. 
 
 How well I remember, I think last September, 
 I thought I would take just one little flight; 
 
 I bought of June wheat — they called it September — 
 But what the man did to me was simply a fright. 
 
102 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 I hear them reviling, while I sit a-smiling 
 
 At poor Uncle Sam with his coat off to fight; 
 
 The jury's been stung by the shop's smooth conniving 
 And are ready to give them one long endless night. 
 
 The crooked old bucket shop, the skin game bucket shop, 
 The bucket shop that gets you and deprives you of 
 home. 
 
 IF I SHOULD DIE TONIGHT 
 
 TF I should die tonight, 
 
 -*- And one would come to my cold and lifeless clay, 
 
 Take my clammy, stiffening hands, and say, 
 
 "Bill, you have fought our battles w^ell," 
 
 I'd rise up, and in my wrath I'd say, "Oh, go to hell!" 
 
 If I should die tonight. 
 
 And some supineless creature'd come 
 
 With flowers for the good I'd done, 
 
 I'd push right up that coffm lid 
 
 And ask him frankly what he did 
 
 While I w^as here to fan the flame 
 
 Of work worth while; then drop dead again. 
 
 If I should die tonight. 
 
 And take the steps to an unknown land. 
 
 And one would come and clasp my hand 
 
 And say: "Poor old Bill, he's with the blest; 
 
 We pray for calm, eternal rest." 
 
 I'd point my finger in his face and say: 
 
 "What did you do to smooth the way 
 
 Through a life of grief, of tears, of pain?" 
 
 I'd tell him what a chump he'd been, 
 
 And then drop dead again. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 
 
 103 
 
 DEM GUYS NEXT DOOR 
 
 THERE'S a pigeon on my awning. 
 There's some sparrows on my sill, 
 The pigeon's busy cooing 
 
 While the youngster sucks his bill; 
 But I never mind the sparrow 
 
 Or the pigeon any more; 
 But it digs into my marrow 
 
 At the guys that sit next door. 
 
 When my work progresses fairly 
 
 At the closing of the day 
 I hear them say, deal squarely. 
 
 How much will it cost to stay? 
 Come on, old sport, put in your dough, 
 
 Don't let 'em make you sore, 
 A pair of ladies, don't you know, 
 
 I hear from my next door. 
 
 And then it's quiet for a spell, 
 
 Just riffling, shuffling sound, 
 Then somebody says, "0, hell," 
 
 Go deal those cards around. 
 I hold four kings and a little ace. 
 
 That makes an awful roar." 
 And what is said is out of place 
 
 From the guys that are next door. 
 
 w 
 
 WHEN THE ICE IS IN THE RYE 
 
 HEN the cold winds blow a hurricane across the 
 northern coast, 
 
 An' you stir the blooming fire just to give your shms a 
 roast; 
 
 An' you drink a quart of bitter dope to cure that hack- 
 ing cough. 
 
104 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 An' you drink your Tom and Jerrys with your pedals in 
 
 the trough. 
 It is then you think of Texas with her big, briglit, smiling 
 
 sky, 
 And swear you'll cuddle in her arms when the ice is in 
 
 the rye. 
 
 When old March, that windy, bilious, bilging, roaring 
 
 month. 
 That digs down to the marrow and your clothing don't 
 
 give warmth. 
 An' your nose is like a sugar tree, sap running down your 
 
 lip; 
 An' you curse the beastly weather as the "boneset tea" 
 
 you sip. 
 An' as the goose flesh creepeth down your quivering back, 
 
 you sigh — 
 For old Texas' balmy weather when the ice is in the rye. 
 
 When you go to bed at night time, an' between the sheets 
 
 you creep, 
 'N instead of prayers its curses, for there's snow upon 
 
 your sheet; 
 The alarm clock with its rattle indicates another day, 
 'N you crawl out like a snail from your eiderdown and 
 
 hay, 
 'N you long for dear old Texas where the mornings all 
 
 are dry, 
 'N the cactus is a bloomin' and the ice is in the rye. 
 
 If you come to Texas you'll spike the cannons of that 
 cough. 
 
 But altho' the sky is smiling, I advise don't take 'em off; 
 
 Altho' she's sweet and pleasant, yet she holds in her em- 
 brace 
 
 One of them ding-burned northers that has whiskers on 
 his face; 
 
 And if you've donned the B. V. D.'s it may git an' you'll 
 die. 
 
 And the flavor will be lost to you, when the ice is in the 
 rye. 
 
LUBRICATIONS 105 
 
 OPTIMISTIC BILL 
 
 DID you ever know Bill Davis? 
 Well, I'm sure you've missed a treat. 
 Bill alius had a smile for you 
 
 No matter how bad he was beat. 
 In a boss trade, or a land deal. 
 
 It was all the same to Bill; 
 He smiled and took his medicine 
 No matter how bitter the pill. 
 
 Well, Bill planted twenty acres of wheat 
 
 Down in his bottom land. 
 And when the wind rippled through it 
 
 I tell you it looked hiighty grand; 
 But an awful storm struck that valley. 
 
 They called it a water spout; 
 It flooded the entire valley 
 
 And washed Bill's wheat all out. 
 The neighbors all came to condole him, 
 
 But Bill, with a smile so bland, 
 Said, "Now, don't worry, neighbors. 
 
 You see it has left the land." 
 
 Bill had hardly recovered 
 
 From the effect of the water spout. 
 When his barn was struck by lightning. 
 
 But he got his horses out. 
 Again his friends all came 
 
 To view his misery; 
 But with a smile perpetual, 
 
 "I've saved my stock you see. 
 And then the old barn was rotten. 
 
 And for some time has been too small- 
 ni build me up another one, 
 
 I'll have it done by fall." 
 
106 LUBRICA TIONS 
 
 Do you know that persecuted feller 
 
 Just got started to build that barn, 
 When a cyclone struck his residence 
 
 And blew it off his farm. 
 Again the neighbors came to Bill 
 
 And offered their sympathy, 
 And Bill smiled on and pointed out 
 
 That he'd saved his family. 
 He thought the house was far too small 
 
 And he was going to tear it down. 
 He needed a bigger and better one — 
 
 He'd have the lumber sent out from town. 
 
 Bill was the very best feller 
 
 That ever the Lord let live; 
 Wherever charity was needed 
 
 Bill was always willing to give. 
 There's no use of us talking, neighbor. 
 
 His equal was hard to find, 
 For no matter how caustic his neighbors got 
 
 They were always sure to find 
 Bill beaming down on them; 
 
 No matter how uncomfortable the seat. 
 But the hardest luck Bill ever had 
 
 Was when he lost both of his feet. 
 His good friends all were so sorry 
 
 Of the accident, so I'm told. 
 And thought to hear him complaining. 
 But Bill, he only smiled wanly. 
 
 And said, "Well, they always were cold." 
 
 I'd rather have Bill's disposition 
 And go through life on them pegs, 
 
 Than go about borrowing trouble 
 Like some that have good legs. 
 
 
LUBRICATIONS 107 
 
 THE GRAFTER 
 
 'T'HE grafter, O the grafter, has no reason to complain, 
 -*• The money from the sweat-shops and the babies are 
 
 his gain; 
 He scorns the decent people, he dotes on vice and crime, 
 Thinks the preachers in the pulpit should all be doing 
 
 time; 
 He sneers at buoyant laughter, and he chokes the sweet- 
 est song. 
 To his degenerate brain, God is always wrong. 
 
 The grafter, O the grafter, have you met him in your path. 
 Have you seen his sordid head-lines, and words of vicious 
 
 wrath? 
 Instead of printing upright news, the sheet is full of lies, 
 He is the master criminal, that good men all despise. 
 We can stand the ignoramus, the idiot and all — 
 But we MUST crush this viper, the grafter and his gall. 
 
 TO MY BOOK 
 
 T^HE days I have wasted on you, little book, 
 -*- The hours I have spent in my den's quiet nook. 
 Where you and I have conspired alone. 
 Weaving our fancies, and dreaming of home. 
 
 You're selfish of me as a lover true — 
 
 Awake you beckon — I dream of you; 
 
 You have taken me away from friends that are dear, 
 
 You have made me a hermit, without shedding a tear; 
 
 For the friends that I've lost, but the time I've employed, 
 
 In the creation of you has been greatly enjoyed. 
 
108 LUBRICATIONS 
 
 Do I love you, old friend? Aye, look in my heart, 
 Don't you see you're myself, and that the best part? 
 How well do I know you and all that's within 
 Each of us. The only ones wronged by my devotional sin 
 Are friends — some unloyal, yet some that are true, 
 But I never can tell them what I can tell you. 
 
 Sometimes you take me from business away, 
 
 But in that you are wrong, for there'll come a day, 
 
 A decision is made twixt you and my bread. 
 
 Then the wise will be wiser, will not point to their head, 
 
 When we pass along, but will grasp the hard hand 
 
 That has fondled you so tenderly, my silent brigand. 
 
 But wherever I go I'll find none that will cleave 
 
 Like you, my old friend; nowhere on earth can I leave 
 
 My joys and my sorrows, where no one will look 
 
 As on your printed pages, my own little book. 
 
 The thoughts that you hold will attract not the eye 
 
 Of the critic or scholar, good-bye, good-bye. 
 
 THE APOLOGY 
 
 T COULDN'T think of living in this beautiful world of 
 ^ ours 
 
 Without poetical thoughts — with a pathway full of flowers. 
 A man who does not sometime rhyme, society should him 
 
 disown. 
 For the savage still is in him, and his wild oats yet 
 
 unsown. 
 He stunts the pretty pictures that in his mind would last. 
 His presence turns the forest leaves, like winter's icy 
 
 blasts. 
 He never sees the little birds darting in the spring, 
 He never sees the bursting buds, nor hears the robin sing. 
 He's never seen a great sea wave lash a reeling ship. 
 He's never sat with his sweetheart and listened to the drip 
 
LUBRICATIONS 109 
 
 Of the gurgling and the murmuring of the little woodland 
 
 stream 
 As it rolled and tumbled to the sea in a visionary dream. 
 Yet these are commonplace visions seen by poets each 
 
 day. 
 Cultivate your rhythmic inheritance, you'll find in it 
 
 good pay. 
 For we all have it in us — to you it may seem but a spark. 
 Dream it, read it, and write it, it may turn to a flame in 
 
 the dark. 
 And when in the sear and the yellow and darkness, and 
 
 you are alone, 
 Take up the pad and the pencil, create loving memories 
 
 of home. 
 
IH17 89 
 

 
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