Individually Published Poems, April 1909






THE SAD CASE OF SLEEPY SAM
___________

by JOE CONE.


Old Sleepy Sam
Warn’t worth a slam,
No matter how you took him;
          His good wife, Clo’,
          Ten years ago
Packed up her duds an’ shook him.
          He was so dead
          For sleep, they said,
He didn’t seem to mind it;
          But slept all day
          The same ol’ way,
At least they so opined it.

When sleepy Sam struck Gunga-wamp, two score of years ago,
Jest who he was, or whence he came, nobody seemed to know;
He simply hit our lively town one day all in a heap,
An’ then the only thing he done was go right off to sleep.
He slept all through the hull blamed week, an’ Sunday was the same,
They couldn’t wake him long enough to learn his secunt name;
He’d go to sleep where’er he set, an’ ’twasn’t any sham,
An’ so there warn’t no other way but call him “Sleepy Sam”.

One day Bill Jones got short for help and went clen out to Sam’s,
An’ offered him a dollar if he’d come an’ smoke some hams;
Ol’ Sam – he yawned an’ garped an’ stretched an’ settled in a heap
An’ Bill he couldn’t wake him up, an’ so left him asleep.
“Gosh ding him for a sleepy head!” said Bill to us that night,
“He’s got ol’ Rip Van Winkle skinned for sleep, clean out o’ sight;
He ain’t no bus’ness livin’ here in this here active town,
He’d orter live where they hev night the hull blamed year around.”
One day Sam’s dwellin’ ketched afire, an’ ev’rybody run
To help put out the blaze an’ at the same time hev some fun;
They ‘spected jest for once they’d see ol’ Sam a-hustlin’ round,
A-luggin’ stuff out of the house to safety on the ground.
But there he set in his ol’ chair as sleepy as could be,
While half the roof was blazin’ up, an awful sight to see.
They yanked him out, an’ shook him up, an’ Sam said, yawin’ deep:
“Fur heben’s sake put out the fire an’ let me go to sleep!”

Old Sleepy Sam
          Warn’t worth a slam,
No matter how you took him;
          They stopped the blaze,
          Then turned their gaze
On Sleepy Sam an’ shook him;
          But Sam jest set –
          He’s settin’ yet –
His lifelong nap unbroken;
          He’ll never wake
          Except to take
A drink, I’ve heard it spoken.



                                               
Undated, but from April, 1909, and published in The Boston Herald.
                Originally titled just ‘Sleepy Sam’.










SOME OMARESQUE QUATRAINS ON THE ARRIVL OF THE SPRING
VERSES BY JOE CONE.
ILLUS. BY W. J. SINNOTT.



W
AKE! For the Spring is serving up his Shoots,
  And fans Old Winter out on three fast Beauts.
    And now the Summer Kid is warming up
Behind the Grand Stand. Hear! All Out Doors roots!


Up with the Break o’ Day! The Cock just crew!
Cut the tired Feeling and down Stairs with you!
Good Sulphur and Molasses wait for you there,
Or else the Housewife’s bitter Springtime Brew!

Across the bare and barren back yard Lot,
A game of Two Old Cat is getting hot.
     The Captain’s voice now makes the Echoes ring:
“Hi there. You’re out! Git off de Plate, McSwatt.”

And I remember stopping by the Way
And asking One, “Has’t made a doublt Play?”
     But with the Essence of Contempt, He said:
“Aw, on your Way, Bo, on your Way!”


Comes now the Wife, with immemorial Might,
Cleans House and Hectors Microbes Day and Night.
     Her hair is all awry and – say it soft –
The Busy Housewife is a Holy Fright.

There is the Chair on which I must not sit.
There is the Room though which I may not Flit.
     Some little Talk there was of Who was Who:
I learned the Lore of Ages: SHE is IT!

When Wife usurps the Place of Working Man
Just lock your Lips, if lock your Lips you can.
     And when she tells You that We just must move,
’Tis up to You to charter some large Van.


Schoolbooks! O, how they drag through Days like these;
Little of Work and many wistful “Gees!”
A pocketful of Marbles or a Top,
Or else a bobbing Kite flung to the Breeze.


I sometimes think that never looks a Cow
So sweet as under some old Apple Bough,
      Where Mr. Artist gets free Rent, – and yet,
Perhaps he sells It to some smug High Brow.

The Marshland Orchestra is all attune –
The Bullfrogs chorus from the dank Lagoon;
      The Burden of their Strain seems but to be
That “Jug o’ Rum” can’t come a Bit too soon.

The Long-Haired Bard sits in his lonely Tower,
And writes his verdant Verses by the Hour;
      While in the Shed below his Wife revolves
A Wash-Machine of unpoetic Power.


The Guy who wants to be a Month ahead,
His Overcoat and Flannels now has shed;
      He tries to smile at April’s Chill, but see!
He looks as though he’d got a pain instead.

Up ’neath the Maple Trees the Boy just stole,
He has an Auger and will bore a Hole;
      He wants to get some Sap. Alas, Alack!
The Farmer here pursues him with a Pole!

Hank Stubbs is held from Tilling of the Land.
His Wife has Use for his big, strong right Hand.
      Instead of beating a desired Retreat,
He has to beat the Rugs to beat the Band.

With empty Creel the Angler seeks the Bough;
A jug o’ Bait, a Box of Sardines – wow!
      And Bread enough to make a Sandwich thick –
O, Wilderness, what Joy of Spring hast Thou!


April 18, ‘09












































































































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