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
S
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