图书图片
PDF
ePub

The point of the game is to drag the beast

While she's headed sou-west, toward the nor-nor-east;
God made the beast, and he drew the plan,
And he left the bulk of the haul to man.

So primitive man dug a brace for his sandal.
Took hold of the tail, as the logical handle;
Got a last good drink, and a bite of bread,
And pulled till the blood ran into his head.

At first he gained till it looked like a cinch,
But then the beast crawled back an inch;
And ever since then it's been Nip and Tuck,
Sometimes moving, but oftener stuck.

Most of the gains have been made by the crowd-
Sweating nobly, and swearing aloud.

Yet sometimes a single man could land
A good rough jerk, or a hand-over-hand.

They say Confucius made her come-
Homer and Dante-they each pulled some!
Bill Schopenhauer's foot slipped, rank,

While Shakespeare, he fetched her a horrible yank.

The beast has hollered and frequently spit,
Often scratched, and sometimes bit,

And the men who were mauled, or laid out cold,
Were the very ones with the strangle hold.

Why he did it, I don't know;

But the Lord he designed and decreed it so.

Of course he knew that the game was no cinch,
So he gave man some trifles to help in a pinch.

One was an instinct, that might be read:

"Lay hold of something, and pull till you're dead!" Another, that can't be translated as well,

Was, "Le' go my tail-and go to Hell!"

But the strongest card in the whole blame pack
Was the fine sensation that paid man back;
For the finest feeling that's been unfurled
Is the feel of the fur on the tail of the world!

BOOK XV

The Poet

THE

By-the-Way

(From "Songs of the Dead End")

BY PATRICK MACGILL

(See pages 32, 47, 122, 406)

HESE be the little verses, rough and uncultured, which

I've written in hut and model, deep in the dirty ditch, On the upturned hod by the palace made for the idle rich.

Out on the happy highway, or lines where the engines go, Which fact you may hardly credit, still for your doubts

'tis so,

For I am the person who wrote them, and surely to God, I know!

Wrote them beside the hot-plate, or under the chilling skies,

Some of them true as death is, some of them merely lies, Some of them very foolish, some of them otherwise.

Little sorrows and hopings, little and rugged Rhymes, Some of them maybe distasteful to the moral men of our

times,

Some of them marked against me in the Book of the Many Crimes.

These, the Songs of a Navvy, bearing the taint of the brute, Unasked, uncouth, unworthy, out to the world I put, Stamped with the brand of labor, the heel of a navvy's

boot.

« 上一页继续 »