 Section XXVI of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Hail and Farewell, for a certain club, to Winfield Moody. Ah, dead and done, forever dead and done, the mellow dusks, the friendly dusks and dim, when Charlie shook the cocktails up, or tin. Gone are ten thousand gleaming moments. One like fireflies twinkling toward oblivion. Ah, how the bubbles used to leap and swim, breaking in laughter round the goblet's brim, when Walter pulled the cork for us, or John. I have seen ghosts of men I never knew, great, gracious souls, the golden hearts of earth, look from the shadows in those rooms we love, living a wistful instant in our mirth. I have seen Jefferson smile down at Drew, and Booth pause musing on the stair above. Into Section XXVI, recording by Larry Wilson. Section XXVII of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Five, a temperance track, to Bob Dean. Cocktails are the little brooms that whiskey weigh your willpower. A dark disease is Bright's disease, and will not yield to pillpower. Some may upon red rums decant, who never did decant rums. But I have eaten bitter bread, where bitters breed their tantrums. The fool will give his life to booze, the wiser man taboos that. When I'm a sad but wiser man, than when I used to ooze that. I owned a bank, and for a fad, I cultivated two lips. If I had owned the mint itself, to it all have gone for juleps. Mums extra dry make some men grow, as dry as any mummy. And when I'm tight, I loosen up, a punch, and I am chummy. Except when I swore off and lent with borrowers I mingled. They'd make my pocket cease to clink, whenever I was jingled. But though I drank with scarce a check, my draft saved people trouble. For I would often pay dubs twice, because I saw them double. Oh, cognac is a fearful drink to brandy man with shame. Oh, he will that drinks diluted gin diluted of good name-o. I whined till I began to ale, and then I whined with ailing. Until to crown the woe's eye sight, I found my eyesight failing. Sir Fitz will come, my doctor warned. Sir Fitz will bloat the mind, sir. I laughed, and took my glasses off, and said, I'll go it blind, sir. Champagnes and real insider me set my high spirits flagon. Still with gay dogs I played the wag, deriding of the wagon. My tongue was like a cotton bale, all whitish from the gin, sir. The doctor said no tongue can state the state your tongue is in, sir. With so much rye and corn you cope, your crowd are cornacopers. How can earth be utopia when peopled by utopers? But still I dodged from fate to fate, still followed by my fate, oh. Still floating loans and liquids till my bank did liquidate, oh. Bonds use up dough, what my fund did, were it refunded one day, would fund the banks of Newfoundland and float the bay a fun day. Don't hitch your wagon to a star upon the brandy bottle. If you your neck to nectar-ope, your hope will surely throttle. End of Section 27, Recording by John Brandon. Section 28 of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquis. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Section 26 of Vision in the Night to Grant Rise. Beyond Arcturus, in a peevish wind, I met a rumpled devil beating home, and went spore-friend I challenged, as thou come, with ragged plumage ravelled out behind, and split your teeth and lamps all blear and blind. What fate hath bent a skillet or thy dome? He sighed, and in that sigh I read a tome of bleeding sorrows and an aching mind. Rough stuff, he moaned, was what I got from mine. It was fierce virtue put me on the bum, trampled my slats and wronged my winsome face. Once I was loved, and called the angel wine, kicked hellward now, and hurtling out through space, I am known only as the demon rum. End of Section 28, Recording by John Brandon. Section 29 of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquis. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 7. The Last Case of Jinn. To Lauren Palmer. The Toly Wub is singing by the Willy Winkles Grotto. His passionate devotion, though, he knows he hadn't ought to. And she wipes away a teardrop with a little furtive fin. She is fluttered, but she's frightened by his outburst of emotion. In their somewhat formal corner of a rather proper ocean, and I can understand them, for I've got a crate of Jinn. Interpretive thesis on the psychochemic state, induced in the Batrachia by fear or love or hate, I find a rather easy, since I've opened up the crate. I'm going to be a scientist by morning. A Willy Winkle seldom, a Spritely thing or elfish, but morally she's rigid as the most exclusive shellfish. She cans her rash admirer, but she cans him with a sigh. An analytic novel might be reared upon the basis of a very earnest study of the looks upon their faces and their brave renunciation when they sobbed and said goodbye. I claim that the transmission of their fortitude and pain to succeeding generations will improve the moral strain of the species here considered and their lost result in gain. And I wish I had some Angostura bitters. I have a strong impression of the eminence of morals in this quite extensive cosmos from caster beans to quarrels. In science and religion, I will tell the world our one. I should prove it, gentle reader, had we leisure time before us. I should prove it or expire in the act of hurling torus. I wonder where the Dickens has that silly corkscrew gone. I find as I grow older, the Perth subliminal keeps butting in to chatter with egotistic gall. Romance I meditated, this isn't that at all, but anyhow I have some limes and siphons. End of section 29. Recording by John Brandon. Section 30 of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Crown singers to Charlie Bain. Liquor there is, but we knew happier days. When jug by jowl in many a tavern booth we sat and glimpsed the world's ulterior truth and followed life through all its secret ways, what light flashed up on us in golden rays out of the booze to blend with fire of youth. Crown singers we, although for sooth, the dips is snake still rustled in our bays. Hail rum, sweet demon of my wastrel years. Farewell, old mellow angel, ripe with vice. Dreamers and singers, cronies, let us drink a stirrup cup of laughter and of tears. Omar and Falstaff. Both are on the blink. The bitter people say they are not nice. End of section 30. Recording by John Brandon. Section 31 of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Poem nine. Down in a wine vault. To Harold Gould. Down in a wine vault, underneath the city, two old men were sitting. They were drinking booze. Torn were their garments. Hair and beards were gritty. One had an overcoat, but hardly any shoes. Overhead the streetcars. Through the streets were running. Filled with happy people going home to Christmas. In the Adirondacks, the hunters all were gunning. Big ships were sailing down by the Isthmus. In came a little tot for to kiss her granny. Such a little totty she could scarcely toddle. Saying, kiss me, grandpa, kiss your little nanny. But the old man beamed her with a whiskey bottle. Outside the snowflakes began for to flutter. Far at sea the ships were sailing with the seamen. Not another word did angel nanny utter. Her grand sire chuckled and pledged the whiskey demon. Upspake the second man, he was worn and weary. Tears washed his face, which otherwise was pasty. She loved her parents, who commuted on the eerie. Brother, I'm afraid you struck a trifle hasty. She came to see you, all her pretty dud sound, bringing Christmas posies from her mother's garden, riding in the tunnel underneath the Hudson. Brother, was it rum caused your heart to harden? Upspake the first man, here I sits a thinking. How the country's drifting to a sad condition. Here I sits a dreaming. Here I sits a drinking. Here I sits a dreading, dreading prohibition. When in comes nanny, my little daughter's daughter. Me she has been begging ever since October, for to sign the pledge. It's ended now in slaughter. I never had the courage when she caught me sober. All around the world little tots are begging grandpas and daddies for to quit their lushing. Reformers egzaman, I am tired of egging. Tired of being cowed, cowering and blushing. I struck for freedom. I'm a man of metal. Though I never would have done it had I not been drinking. From Athabasca south, to Papa Catapettle, we must strike for freedom, quit our shrinking. Said the second old man, I beg your pardon. Brother, please forgive me, my words were hasty. I get your viewpoint. Our hearts must harden. Try the sale. It is bitter, brown and tasty. Said the first old man, hear me sobbing, poor little nanny, she's gone to himmel. Prince, the pull must conquer. Though hearts be throbbing, just curl your lip around this kimmel. Down in a wine vault, underneath the city, they sat drinking while the snow was falling. Wicked old men, with scarcely any pity, the moral of my tale is quite appalling. Of the old soak and hell and farewell by Don Marquess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. In the sunless land where thou art gone, the shadowy realm of presser pine, has wine to drink anachron, still hast thy lute its laughing tone, still do thy nymphs the ivy twine, in the sunless land where thou art gone. A Bacchus in a reeling throne, thy temples bound with trailing vine, has wine to drink anachron. From cool deep caves of delved stone, do slaves still fetch thee samee and wine, in the sunless land where thou art gone? Or is a cup's mere semblance shown, then snatch from those parched lips of thine? Has wine to drink anachron? Like Tantalus does thou make moan, plagued by a mockery malign, in the sunless land where thou art gone, hast wine to drink anachron. Gloggy is a logg, Gogg says to Magog, I'm as Gleg as a Grig, Gurgle, Gurgle, Gurgle, Glog, Glog, Glog, Magog says to Gogg, I'm jolly as a Polly, wiggle waggle wagg, that's turning to a froggle, a friggle-fraggle frog, Gurgle, Gurgle, Gurgle, Glog, Glog, and Gogg felt his noggin, and Magog his mug. Magog was a giant, likewise so was Gogg. On New Year's morning, both were on their legs, and sat down to breakfast, and ordered ham and eggs. End of Section 33 Recording by Chod Horner from Liverpool Section 34 Of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquis This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain. Poem 12 In an Old Time Tavern Booth To Ben de Ciceras Poem 13 Drinking idols and see the gods go by, they wave to me the hand of comradeship, for I am one with them, and at my lip the cup of wisdom bubbles. Up the sky a blur of moon dust drifts to dull mine eye, but through the veil my romping vision slip to dance among the careless stars. I'll strip the racing planets where they swoop and fly, and then, from somewhere east of Mars, a keen, thin wind winds for a dime. I drop one in a sad Salvation Army tambourine, and hear a weary homily on sin. Sister, I say, you're right, and yet the truth sometimes sits near me in this tavern booth. End of Section 34 Recording by Anita Sloma Martinez Section 35 Of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquis This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain. Poem 13 The Old Brass Railing To Charlie Still Our minds are scalded to grief and earth. Our lips too are aware, but our feet still seek a railing. When a railing isn't there, I went into a druggist's shop to get some stamps and soap. My feet rose up in spite of me, and pawed the air with hope. I know that neither east nor west, and neither north nor south, so rise a cloud of joy to shed its dampness on my drought. I know that neither here nor there, when winds blow to you and fro, shall any friendly odour shine the nose they used to know, whose tine shall greet my straining eyes, no matter how they blink. Mine ears shall never hear again the high ball glasses clink. There is not anywhere a jug to cuddle with my wrist, but my habit sheet of foot remains an optimist. It lifts itself, it curls itself, it fails the empty air, it seeks a long brass railing, and the railing isn't there. I do not seek for sympathy, my stomach nor for throat. I never liked my liver much, it is such a sulky goat. I do not seek your pity for my writhe and tongue and ride. I do not ask your tears because my lips are shrunk and dried. But oh, my foot, my cheated foot, my foot that lives in hope. It is a pity sight to see, it left itself a group, I look at it, I talk to it, I listen at the plate, but with a humble cheerfulness that makes my heart to plate, it lifts itself, it curls itself, it searches through the air, it seeks a long brass railing, and the railing isn't there. I carried it to church one day, old foot so fond and frail, I had to drag it forth in haste, I grabbed the chunsel rail, my heart is all resigned and calm, so likewise is my soul. But my cheated foot is quite beyond control, an escalator on the L began its upward trip, my foot reached up and clutched the rail and crushed it in its grip. It grabs the headboard of my bed with such determined clasp that I'm compelled to scald the thing to make it lose its grasp. Sometimes it leaps to clutch the curb when I walk down the street. Oh, how I suffer for the hope that lives with them my feet, that lives with them myself I calm, ensure the drive, my stoic calm and prayer, but my feet still seek a railing, when a railing isn't there. End of Section 35, Recording by Chad Horner from Liverpool. Section 36 of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 14. Once youth was mine, to Frank Stanton. Once the wild raptures and the beating wings of song were mine, the sun, the climbing flight, the wind's great fellowship upon the height. Once youth was mine, and the young heart that sings. But now the little things, the trivial things, beat down my spirit with their lead might. Could I, within some friendly dive to-night, meet the old gang, to it make me young, by jings? As the mad lark rises, drunk with joy and sun, when morning bends above the dewy meadow, and his clear call proclaims, The day is won. Over a hurried route of driven shadows, so should I rise and sing, Had I a bun? I would that we were sourced together, kiddo. In the section 36, recording by Larry Wilson. Section 37 of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Poem number 15 in a tavern booth. To Bob Lillard. Out of my forehead now the long thoughts reach, and level rays that melt the Pleiades. Which, melting, somehow smell like toasted cheese. I know life's secret now, but have no speech to utter it. Indeed, small wish to teach my truths to trivial planets such as these, whereupon the population's drone like bees, that have no honey gift eat stinging each, and yet I will speak too. The slow words come, with pain out of my deeps of ecstasy. Burst from my soul as from a beaten drum. In a hoarse pulse of sound, but a heart to me. Life's secret is that all things cool somewhat, like golden bucks. But somehow that seems to rot. End of section 37, recording by Oogie's Ragdoll. Section 38 of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Sixteen, an engagement, to Kit Morley. There is a place, not far from Gissing Street, in Paradise, where one can dream and laugh. You go through Shelley Lane, striking your staff upon the cobbles, turn with eager feet down Benet Place. And there you are. I'll meet you, Christopher, and we shall quarrel and quaff for putre-tankards full of shandy-gough. And eat and eat, and eat and eat, and eat. And must we die first? Well, it's worth the trouble. I shall go first, because I'm old and gray. And permanently I'll reserve a booth. And when you come, no doubt I'll see you double. And as you land from Sharon's gif, I'll say, Here, kid, taste this. Roll this upon your tooth. Into Section 38 Recording by Larry Wilson Section 39 of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquess This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Poem 17 The Battle of the Keyholes to Jimmy Farnsworth The keyholes to the right of me were dancing of a jig. The keyholes to the left of me were merry as a grig. The keyholes right before my face were drunk and winked at me, and I stood there alone, alone, with one small key. They frightened me. They daunted me. I turned back to the stair, and faced nine keyholes, pale and stern, that lay in ambush there. Six keyholes on the ceiling sat, eight keyholes on the door, and seven saddened keyholes lay hiccuping on the floor. I crawled through one. I crawled through two. I crawled through keyholes three. And then I saw a visted mile of keyholes waiting me. I will not crawl another yard through keyholes though I die. Oh, when my fighting blood is up, a turk am I. They leapt at me. They flew at me. They whistled as they came. They gritted of their gleaming teeth. They stung and spurred at flame. I put my back against the floor and fought them gallantly. But what could anybody do with one small key? Keyholes at the front of me, and keyholes on the flank, and as they rushed at me, I smelled the liquor that they drank, keyholes on my spinal cord, and keyholes in my hair, and with a heave together, boys, they rolled me down the stair. It bumped me some. It bent me some. It broke a nose or two. And when the milkman came, he said, what Kaiser Belgium do you? I says to him, it might have been the same with you as me, if you like me had had to fight a gang of keyholes all last night with one small key. End of section 39, reading by Anita Sloma Martinez. Section 40 of The Old Soak and Hail and Far Well by Don Marquise This Libby Fox recording is in the public domain. Poem 18 in a tavern booth to Sam McCoy. I thought a sun pursued through endless space, I fled the following thunder of his feet. Snorting he came, his breath a withering heat, blown suit of cindered comet freaked his face. My hide caught fire and crackled with the pace, my burning heart with jests of anguish beat. Flaming I leapt, in flame leapt on the fleet and savage star. We slashed our fiery trace, tin constellations broad and screaming red, across the star of purple of the night. A word tremendous clove, mine ears and head. A great arm fell and shook my wings of flight. Hey mister, pay your check. A brute force said, it was a red-haired barkeep known as Ed. End of Section 40 Recorded by Oogie's Red Doll Section 41 of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquise This Libby Fox recording is in the public domain. Poem No. 41 Hail and Farewell Yearnings and Memories to Jimmy Fisher Liquor there is, but how I miss the bar. I miss a certain attitude of mind. Congenial which I seek but never find, except beneath the golden triple star, which is from the brandy bottle shines afar. I miss a type of jest that was designed, for roaring bar rooms warmed with booze and kind. Good God! How coarse and low my real tastes are! I miss an ambling, splayfoot, waiter's beak, which, like some Red Peninsula of Hell, glowed through the humming bar room's smoky reek. I miss the lies I used to hear Mantell over the telephone to Waiting Wives. What sweet aromas had these joyous lives. End of Poem 41 Section 42 of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquise This Libby Fox recording is in the public domain. Poem number 20 Do You Remember To Harry Dixie Do you remember that first morning drink when Ed would smile and say, What shall it be? Would you advise a gin fizz-ed for me? It's too early for a fizz, I think. And would an absinthe put me on the blink, I wonder, Ed? Absinthe would not agree this morning, sir. Then what's your recipe? A bland cocktail, delicate and pink. Oh, kindly bar-keeps that had raised me up from morning glooms and made me live again. Where are you now? And where your wizardry? As dead as great Ulysses' faithful pup, as dead as Babylon and James G. Blaine, as dead as Jip the Blood in Nineveh. End of Section 42 Recording by Don Johnson Redondo Beach, California Section 43 of The Old Soak and Hail in Farewell by Don Marquise This Libby Fox recording is in the public domain. Poem number 22 And Do You May Recall This To Charlie Edson I want you meet a no-no friend of mine. Um, glad to meet you. Bill's friends is my friend's too. This friend's best friend. I gotta open wine. You gotta let me buy this drink for you. I gotta buy this drink for no-no friend. Now listen, Jim. You're gonna love this lad. Bill's friends is my friend's to the bitter end. Now listen, Jim. This best friend ever had. Honest, hardworking drunkards. Hour by hour, they toiled at their chosen task until they bent beneath the burdens that they bore. They bent and swayed, sustained but by the power, each one of his indomitable will, which ever made him conquer just one more. End of Section 43 Recording by Don Johnson Redondo Beach, California Section 44 of The Old Soak and Hail in Farewell by Don Marquise This Libby Fox recording is in the public domain. Section 44 Hail in Farewell True, but what of it? To Gilbert Gabrielle Old demon rum, they say you ruined homes, bashing the piteous wife betwixt her eyes, stabbing Aunt Tilde with her own haircombs, and teaching your young offspring stealth and lies. Angel, they say that one night lost to Grace, you filched the infant's coral from her crib, hawked it, and blew the loot at Leary's place. Then strangled Baby Sister in her bib, because it purchased only sixteen beers. Demon, they say you used to cut up rough, sowing the earth with poverty and tears, and I believe it readily enough. I do admit your crimes is charged above, but Angel, crime can never kill my love. End of Section 44 Section 45 Of The Old Soak and Hail in Farewell by Don Marquise This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by April 6090, California, United States of America The Old Soak and Hail in Farewell by Don Marquise Section 45 Hail in Farewell, A Summer Daydream To Foster Follett If there were many miles of me, how I would love to trail, my length along the cooling sea, above the brown sea kale. Were there five thousand feet of me, instead of five feet four? A thousand times as cool I'd be, swimming from shore to shore. And when I saw a brewery upon some cape or aisle, I'd crawl out of the dripping sea and greet it with a smile. Then all my lovely coils I'd wrap around that brewery, and when I'd squeezed out every drop, slide back into the sea. End of Section 45 Section 46 Of The Old Soak and Hail in Farewell by Don Marquise This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 24 On Swearing Off Again To Dan Carey Barley Corn, my Joe John, they say that we must part, to amend my stomach, maybe. But, oh, it breaks my heart. I hope that we should grow old cheek by jowl together, boozing by the fireside through the wintry weather, with white hair and red face, full of dreams and liquor, watching from an armchair the firelight flicker. But Barley Corn, my Joe John, fare ye well forever. The preachers have my soul, John, the doctors have my liver, and I shall have an old age dry and dull as virtue. But never think, my dear friend, I'm happy to desert you. Barley Corn, my Joe John, to think that we should part. They say it will save my eyesight. But, oh, it breaks my heart. End of Section 46 Recording by Larry Wilson Section 47 of The Old Soak and Hell and Farewell by Don Marquess This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 25 After Several Highballs to Clive Weed I saw three roses on the wall, three red, red roses on the wall, repeated in a pattern. The first Eichleopatra call, the second one's named Sadie Hall. The third one is a Slattern. Three flowers, all curly cues and swirls, each blare-mouthed like a trumpet. One used to fish for swine with pearls. The second was the best of girls. The third one was a Strumpet. Three red-mouthed roses on the wall, as bright and hot as blood. The first one caused an empire to fall. The second was just Sadie Hall. The third died in the mud. End of Section 47 Recording by Larry Wilson Section 48 of The Old Soak and Hell and Farewell by Don Marquess This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 26 Chant Royal of the Dejected Dipsa Mediac to Hal Steed Some fools keep ringing the dumb-waiter bell just as I finish killing Uncle Ned. I wonder if they could have hurt him yell. A moment since I cursed at them and said, This is a pretty time to bring the ice. Old Uncle Ned, two times of late or thrice, I've thought of prodding him with something keen, but always fate has seemed to intervene. Last night, for instance, I was in the mood, but I was far too drunk on yestering. My way of life can end in nothing good. At Mrs. Dumples last week when I fell and spoiled her dinner-party, I was led out to a cab. They saw that I was not well and took me home and tucked me into bed. I should quit mingling hashish with my rice. I should give oversinging three blind mice. At funerals, why will I make a scene? Why should I feed my cousins Paris Green? I am increasingly misunderstood. When I am tactless, people think it's plain. My way of life can end in nothing good. Why should one cry that he is William Tell, then flip a pippin from his hostess head that none but he can see? Why should one dwell upon the failings of the newlywed at wedding breakfast? Can I not be nice? I am so silly and so full of vice. Such prestidigitator tricks I wean as finding false teeth in a soup-terrain are not real humor. They are crass and crude and cast suspicion on the host's cuisine. My way of life can end in nothing good. My wife and her best friend a social swell, zooward I lured to see the cobras fed. We can't go home, I giggled, for the ale is broken. Sarah, let's elope instead. I spoke of all she had had to sacrifice, and she seemed yielding to me once or twice. Until my wife broke in and said, Eugene, your fingernails are seldom really clean. I'd loose poor Sarah's hand, Eugene. I would. How weak and stupid I have always been. My way of life can end in nothing good. I drink and doze and wake and think of hell. My eyes are blear from all the tears I shed. I'm pitably bald. I'm but a shell. I sob today. I wish that I were dead. I wish I could quit drugs and drink and dice. I wish I had not talked of chicken lice the Sunday that we entertained the dean, nor shouted to his wife that paraffin would make her thin beard grow, nor played the food with pennies and her face a slot machine. My way of life can end in nothing good. That bell again. A voice. Is your name Bryce? These goods is COD. Send down the price. Bryce lives a yell at number seventeen. Bryce doesn't live there, but I feel so mean I laugh and lie. My tone is harsh and rude. Uncle is gone. I'm physical and lean. My way of life can end in nothing good. End of section forty-eight, recording by Larry Wilson. Section forty-nine of the Old Soak and Hail and Farewell by Don Marquess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Twenty-seven. Proverbs twenty-three, twenty-nine. To Oliver Hurford. From many a classic scroll and tome and golden texts and warnings shine. If you must drink, get soused at home. Will you get pickled? Then use brine. Each generation gets a sign, but each one needs another prod from scriptures human or divine. The waste-roll always drops his wad. Sleek Athens from the Attic loam, with ill intention coaxed the vine. Arcadian simps admired the foam, while hair-oiled city-gents malign dropped filters in the nethered's stein. Soon Corridan upon the sod lay coinless with a cloven chime. The waste-roll always drops his wad. Wingalek drinks cook, toured to Rome, or roaring two tons from the rine, the thought would fill some yokel's dome to dally with the stranger's wine. Next reel. Tough students sprain his spine and bean him with a curial wad, and roll him down the palatine. The waste-roll always drops his wad. Ross, Bacchus, with that breath of thine and sad eyes like a bilious cod. Me for the tracks I've learned in fine. The waste-roll always drops his wad. End of Section 49. Recording by Larry Wilson. Section 50 of the Old Soak and Hell and Farewell by Don Marquess. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 28. An Object Lesson to Bobby Rogers. A young man in a museum was showing me a mummy, who lay there patiently but glum, a clasping of his tummy. Cafetua archivusulium, or some such regal ruby. In youth, says I, this king was gay in spite of Mrs. Grundy. He burnt the Nile one Saturday. But where was he on Sunday? I added in my learned way, sick transit gloria mundi. He conquered princes, not a few. They voted as he bid him, from Babylon to Timbuktu, from Sheba to Syrim. He thought of things he shouldn't do, and then he went and did him. He loved to send out royal bids from high Egyptian chinks, where pretty Theban Cady did, and little Memphian minkses would trot among the pyramids, and tango round the Sphinxes. But now in his sarcophagus, how quite deceased we find him, with sand in his esophagus, and all his past behind him, while time the anthropophagus is wetting his teeth to grind him. Then note, my lad, the end of kings. Therefore, avoid ambition, for earthly greatness all has wings. You stick to your position, and if men come with crowns and things to tempt you, go aficion. I was a kingly south, says he, impressed from A to Izard, and I would wind up so leathery as this departed wizard, with baldness on the dome of me, and gravel in my gizzard. You would, without a doubt, says I, lose wealth and health and hair. Oh, shaken with sobs, he made reply. I promise and I swear, oh, that I will never drink, and try and never be a pharaoh. In the Section 50, Recording by Larry Wilson Section 51 of the Old Soak and Hell and Farewell by Don Marquess This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 29. A Kansas Tragedy to Charlie Stansbury I started from Missouri, the western part of Missouri, to ride Nicodemus to Nicodemus, Kansas, in the western part of Kansas, not far from Happy Kansas, in Graham County, Kansas. Across the state of Kansas, I started in a fliver, a jolty little fliver with a rhythm rather jerky, irregularly rhythmical, when rhythmical at all. I had to get to Nicodemus by noon on Saturday to pay the mortgage on the farm near Nicodemus, Graham County, Kansas, belonging to a sweetheart who would otherwise be ruined, financially and so could not afford to marry me. As I entered into Kansas and crossed Miami County, to the town of Osawatomi, I received a telegraphic message from my love at Nicodemus. Hason with the money, said the telegraphic message. Hason with the money you are bringing from my uncle, from my uncle Jethro in Missouri, for the man that holds the mortgage, banker Jasper Grinder, who holds the fiendish mortgage, has said he will foreclose it and take away the homestead at noon on Saturday, or else I'll have to marry him to keep from foreclosing. Marry banker Jasper Grinder to keep him from foreclosing. I would hate to marry Grinder. But on the other hand, I would hate to lose the whole alfalfa crop, Hason with the money from my uncle Jethro, Hason to your true love, Ms. Elvira Simpkins at Nicodemus, Kansas. Three hundred miles away was Nicodemus, Kansas, Nicodemus, Graham County, not so far from Happy, Kansas. Could I do it in a fliver in ten hours? From Osawatomi I started with a burst of speed, that carried me to Quinimo, to Quinimo in Osage County, Kansas, at the rate of forty miles an hour. At a garage in Quinimo I paused for gasoline, at Quinimo in Osage County, Kansas. But the man that ran the place with shrill bucolic snickers said, There ain't no gasoline. The gasoline in Kansas has all been took and contrabanded, least ways commandeered just one hour ago, by order of the governor, the governor of Kansas, on account of military operations. No, gasoline in Kansas, and three hundred miles away my love, my love Elvira Simpkins was waiting for the money I had got from Uncle Jethro to save the home at Nicodemus from the clutch of Jasper Grinder. I will telegraph the money, I shouted, with a flash of inspiration, but the station agent told me, There ain't no telegraph, nor nothing runs in Nicodemus, to Nicodemus, Kansas, as far as I can see in this here book. And I looked at the wire from Elvira again, and saw it had been sent from Happy, Kansas, and all the time the precious minutes fluttered by. Banker Jasper Grinder in Nicodemus, Kansas, minute after minute, was approaching nearer the hour of his desire. I could hear him chuckle, the dry and throaty chuckle that village bankers chuckle in the semi-arid regions. Another inspiration came to me, and I cried, I will run my fliver to Nicodemus, Kansas, on alcohol by heck. I can make the engine in my little fliver run to Nicodemus, Kansas, on alcohol by Henry. But the crowd that gathered round me laughed, and laughed, and laughed. They ain't no alcohol in Kansas, said the crowd, between its turtles. Kansas is a dry state, its prohibition Kansas, and you'll never get to Nicodemus, Graham, County, Kansas. Just then the village topper, a gentle creature and decayed, thrust into my hand a gallon of stutter's stomach bitters. He handed me four big quarts of stutter's stomach bitters, and I poured him in the tank and left the town of Quenimo, with the engine doing lovely, and the fliver going strong. And I reached the town of Skiddy, the town of Skiddy, Kansas, in Morris County, Kansas. And I drew up by the drugstore, and I yelled for stutter's stomach bitters. I must reach Elvira Simpkins in Nicodemus, Kansas, ere the clock strikes twelve. Give me bitters, give me bitters. Fill the tank with bitters, for I raced to raise the mortgage. But the drugger said, There's been a run on bitters. Considerable colic in this watermelon weather. How about Sturruna? On a gallon of Sturruna, I ran from Skiddy, Kansas, as far as Elmle, Kansas, and there I laid in nineteen quarts of prohibition appetizer, Dr. Bunker's discovery for kidneys, westward, ever westward, to my love Elvira Simpkins at Nicodemus, Kansas. I ran on Dr. Bunker's through the driest belt of Kansas, through the prohibition center, dear old Dr. Bunker's urge my little fliver. From Elmle to Palakie, six quarts of Lily's gingham's discovery, and a dozen more of Bunker's took me nearer, nearer, nearer, to my love Elvira Simpkins, from Palakie west to Pfeiffer through the town of Thin Gal, then northward to Ogallah, I ran on Seawash Injinsura, a remedy for liver trouble. Take a wine-glass full before each meal. Nearer, ever nearer, to my love at Nicodemus, from Ogallah north to Hapie, north to Hapie, Kansas, in Graham County, Kansas. North and west to Hapie, world of glorious omen, and the villagers came down to sniff the glad aroma of the flying fliver as I turned north to Nicodemus, at thirteen minutes until noon. Filled once more with stutter stomach bitters, I raced into the presence of my love Elvira Simpkins. Alas! Alas! Elvira did not class me in her sturdy Kansas arms. She sniffed the air and said, I never will be wedded to a man who reeks with liquor. Give me Uncle Jethro's money, and don't you leave that drunken fliver on the streets of Nicodemus? And she went and married Jasper Grinder, after all. End of Section 51 Recording by Lurie Wilson End of the Old Soak and Hell and Farewell by Don Marquess