 The face on the bathroom floor by Hugh Antoine Darcy, read for LibreVox.org by Iswa, in Belgium, in March 2008. It was a boring summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, which well-nigh filled Joe's bathroom on the corner of the square. And as songs and witty stories came through the open door, a vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. Where did it come from? Someone said. The wind has blown it in. What does it want? Another cried. Some whiskey rum or gin? Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work. I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a turk. This bad inage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace. In face he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd. To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. Give me a drink. That's what I want. I'm out of funds, you know. When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sue. I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. There, thanks, that's brazed me nicely. God bless you, one and all. Next time I pass this good solo, I'll make another call. Give you a song? Oh, I can't do that. My singing days are past. My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast. I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact I promise, too. Say give me another whiskey, and I'll tell you what I'll do. That I was ever a decent man, no one of you would think. But I was, some four or five years back. Say give me another drink. Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame. Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame. Five fingers, there, that's the scheme, and Corky whiskey, too. Well, here's luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you. You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirtiest thought you see before you now. As I told you, once I was a man with muscle, frame, and health, and but for a blunder ought to have made considerable wealth. I was a painter, not one that dart on bricks and wood, but an artist, and for my age was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, for gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, that is called the Chase of Fame. It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name. And then I met a woman, now comes the funny part, with eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart. Why don't you laugh? It is funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman and expect her love for me. But was so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given, and when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven. Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give, with a form like the mile of Venus too beautiful to live, with eyes that would beat the Coenor and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, it was she, for there never was another half so fair. I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May, of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine who lived across the way. And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise, said she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. He didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown, my friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone. And ere a year of misery had passed above my head. The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead. That's why I took to drink, boys. Why? I never see you smile. I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the while. Why? What's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye. Calm love like me. It's only babes and women that should try. Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey, I'll be glad, and I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score. You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar room floor. Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began to sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture. Dead. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The face on the bar room floor by Hugh Antoine Darcy, read for LibriVox.org by J. C. Kwan, Montreal, March 2008. It was a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, which while I filled Joe's bar room on the corner of the square, and as songs and witty stories came through the open door, a vagabond crept slowly in, and posed upon the floor. Where did it come from, someone said? The wind has blown it in. What does it want, another cried? Some whiskey, rum, or gin? Here toby, sicken, if your stomach's equal to the work, I wouldn't touch him with a fork his filthy as a turk. This badanage the poor witch took with stoical good-grace. In face he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd. To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. Give me a drink, that's what I want. I'm out of funds, you know. When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. What! You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sue. I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. There, thanks, that's braced me nicely. God bless you one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call. Give you a song? No, I can't do that. My singing days are past. My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast. I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact I promise too. Say give me another whiskey, and I'll tell what I'll do. That I was never a decent man, not one of you would think. But I was some four or five years back. Say give me another drink. Fill her up, Joe. I want to put some life into my frame. Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame. Five fingers there, that's the scheme, and corking whiskey too. Well, here's luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you. You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sought you see before you now. As I told you, once I was a man with muscle, frame, and health, and but for blunder ought to have made considerable wealth. I was a painter, not one that dogged on bricks and wood, but an artist, and for my age was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise. So gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, it's called the Chase of Fame. It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name. And then I met a woman. Now comes the funny part, with eyes that perforate my brain, and sunk into my heart. Why don't you laugh, this funny that a vagabond you see could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me? But was so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, and when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven. Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give, with a form like the Milo Venus too beautiful to live, with eyes that would beat the coin ore in a wealth of chestnut hair, if so to a she, for there never was another half so fair? I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May, of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way. And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise said she'd like to know the man that had such a dreamy eyes. You didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown, my friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone. An ear a year of misery had passed above my head, the jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead. That's why I took to drink, boys, why I never see you smile. I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the while. Why what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye. Come, laugh like me, there's only babes and women that should cry. Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad, and I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score. You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barbroom floor. Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began to sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek, he left and fell across the picture dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Face on the Barroom Floor by Hugh Antoine Darcy Read for LibreVox.org by Jan McIllivray Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, which well nigh filled Joe's barroom on the corner of the square. And as songs and witty stories came through the open door, a vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. Where did it come from, someone said? The wind has blown it in. What does it want, another cried? Some whisky rum or gin? Here Toby, sick'em, if your stomach's equal to the work. I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a turk. This bad nudge the poor wretch took with stoical good grace. In face he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. Come boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd. To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. Give me a drink, that's what I want. I'm out of funds, you know. When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow. What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sue. I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. There, thanks, that's braced me nicely. God bless you one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon I'll make another call. Give you a song? No, I can't do that. My singing days are past. My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, my lungs are going fast. I'll tell you a funny story and a fact I promise, too. Say give me another whiskey and I'll tell what I'll do. That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think. But I was some four or five years back. Say give me another drink. Fill her up, Joe. I want to put some life into my frame. Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame. Five fingers, there that's the scheme. And corking whiskey, too. Well, here's luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you. You've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sock you see before you now. As I told you, once I was a man with muscle, frame, and health. And but for a blunder ought to have made considerable wealth. I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks and wood, but an artist. And for my age was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fair to rise. Where gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. I made a picture perhaps you've seen, Tis called the Chase of Fame. It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name. And then I met a woman, now comes the funny part, with eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart. Why don't you laugh, Tis funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman and expect her love for me. But to a sow, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given. And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven. Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give, with a form like the Milo Venus too beautiful to live? With eyes that would beat the koinor and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, to a she, for there never was another half-so-fair. I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine who lived across the way. And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise said she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown, my friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone. And air a year of misery had passed above my head. The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead. That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never see you smile. I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the while. Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye. Come, laugh like me, to his only babes and women that should cry. Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey, I'll be glad. And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score. You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar room floor. Another drink and with chalk in hand the vagabond began to sketch a face that well might by the soul of any man. Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture, dead. This recording is in the public domain. The Face on the Bar Room Floor by Hugh Antoine Darcy Read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes It was a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there, which well-knigh filled Joe's bar room on the corner of the square, and as songs and witty stories came through the open door, a vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. Where did it come from, someone said? The wind has blown it in. What does it want, another cried? Some whiskey, rum or gin? Here Toby, sicken if your stomach's equal to the work. I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a turk. This badanage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace. In Face he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. Come boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd. To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. Give me a drink, that's what I want. I'm out of funds, you know. When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. What! You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sue. I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. There, thanks, that's braced me nicely. God bless you, one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call. Give you a song? No, I can't do that, my singing days are past. My voice is cracked, my throat worn out, my lungs are going fast. I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact I promise too. Say give me another whiskey, and I'll tell what I'll do. That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think. But I was, some four or five years back. Say give me another drink. Fill her up, Joe. I want to put some life into my frame. Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame. Five fingers, there, that's the scheme, and corking whiskey, too. Well, here's luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you. You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sought you see before you now. As I told you once I was a man with muscle, frame, and health, and but for a blunder art to have made considerable wealth. I was a painter, not one that dobbed on bricks and wood, but an artist, and for my age was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, for gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, just called the Chase of Fame. It brought me 1500 pounds, and added to my name. And then I met a woman. Now comes the funny part, with eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart. Why don't you laugh? Just funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me. But it was so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given, and when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven. Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give, with a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live, with eyes that would beat the Coenore, and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, it was she, for there never was another half so fair. I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May, of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way. And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise, said she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown, my friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone. And ere a year of misery had passed above my head, the jewel I had treasured so, had tarnished, and was dead. That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never see you smile. I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the while. Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye. Come, laugh like me. It is only babes and women that should cry. Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad, and I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score. You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar room floor. Another drink, and with chalk in hand the vagabond began to sketch a face that well might by the soul of any man. Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek, he leapt and fell across the picture. Dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Face on the Bar Room Floor by Hugh Antoine Darcy Read for Librebox.org by Mark Smith Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, which well nigh filled Joe's Bar Room on the corner of the square, and as songs and witty stories came through the open door, a vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. Where does it come from? Someone said. The wind has blown it in. What does it want? Another cried. Some whisky, rum or gin? Here, Toby, sick'em. If your stomach's equal to the work, I wouldn't touch him with a fork. He's filthy as a turk. This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace. In fact, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd. To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. Give me a drink. That's what I want. I'm out of funds, you know. When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a sue. I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. There, thanks, that's braced me nicely. God bless you one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call. Give you a song? No, I can't do that. My singing days are past. My voice is cracked. My throat's worn out. And my lungs are going fast. I'll tell you a funny story. And a fact I promise too. Say, give me another whiskey, and I'll tell what I'll do. That I was ever a decent man that one of you would think. But I was some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink. Fill her up, Joe. I want to put some life into my frame. Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame. Five fingers, there. That's the scheme. And corking whiskey, too. Well, here's luck, boys. And landlord, my best regards to you. You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sought you see before you now. As I told you, once I was a man with muscle, frame, and health, and but for a blunder ought to have made considerable wealth. I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks and wood, but an artist, and for my age was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas and was bit and fair to rise, for gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, just called the chase of fame. It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name. And then I met a woman, now comes the funny part, with eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart. Why don't you laugh? It's funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman and expect her love for me. But it was so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, and when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven. Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give, with a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live, with eyes that would beat the curinure and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, it was she, for there never was another half so fair. I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way, and Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise said she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown my friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone. An air a year of misery had passed above my head, the jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead. That's why I took the drink, boys. Why I never see you smile. I thought you'd be amused, and laughin' all the while. Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye. Come laugh like me! There's only babes and women that you cry. Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey, I'd be glad, and I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you marked the baseball score. You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor. Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began to sketch a face that might well buy the soul of any man. Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture. Dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Face on the Barroom Floor by Hugh Antoine Darcy, read for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley. It was a barmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, which, well nigh, filled Joe's barroom on the corner of the square, and as songs and witty stories came, through the open door a vagabond crept slowly in, and posed upon the floor. Where did it come from? Someone said. The wind has blown it in. What does it want? Another cried. Some whiskey, rum, or gin? Here, Toby, seek'em, if your stomach's equal to the work. I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a turk. This badanage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace. In face he smiles, though he thought he'd struck the proper place. Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd. To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. Give me a drink, that's what I want. I'm out of funds, you know. When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sue. I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. There, thanks, that's braced me nicely. God bless you, one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon I'll make another call. Give you a song? No, I can't do that. My singing days are past. My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast. I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too. Say, give me another whiskey, and I'll tell what I'll do. That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think. But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink. Fill her up, Joe. I want to put some life into my frame. Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame. Five fingers, there, that's the scheme. And corking whiskey, too. Well, here's luck, boys. And landlord, my best regards to you. You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sock you see before you now. As I told you, once I was a man with muscle, frame, and health, and but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth. I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks and wood, but an artist, and for my age was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fear to rise, for gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. I made a picture, perhaps you've seen. It is called the Chase of Fame. It brought me 1,500 pounds and added to my name. And then I met a woman, now comes the funny part, with eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart. Why don't you laugh? It is funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman and expect her love for me. But it was so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given, and when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven. Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give with a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live, with eyes that would beat the Koh-i Noor and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, it was she, for there never was another half so fair. I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way, and Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise said she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown, my friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone. And ere a year of misery had passed above my head, the jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead. That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never see you smile. I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the while. Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye. Come laugh like me. It is only babes and women that should cry. Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey, I'll be glad, and I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score. You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar room floor. Another drink, and with the chalk in hand, the vagabond began to sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. Then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek, he leapt and fell across the picture, dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The face on the bar room floor by Hugh Antoine Darcy, read for LibriVox.org by Rachel Linton, Bristol, UK. It was a barmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, which well-nigh filled Joe's bar room on the corner of the square. And as songs and witty stories came through the open door, the vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. Where did it come from, someone said? The wind has blown it in. What does it want, another cried? Some whiskey, rum, or gin? Here, Toby, sicken if your stomach's equal to the work. I wouldn't touch him with a fork. He's filthy as a turk. This badanage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace. In face, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. Come boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd. To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. Give me a drink, that's what I want. I'm out of funds, you know. When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. What, you laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sew. I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. There, thanks. That's braced me nicely. God bless you, one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call. Give you a song, no, I can't do that. My singing days are past. My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast. I'll tell you a funny story and a fact I promise to. Say, give me another whiskey and I'll tell what I'll do. That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think, but I was some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink. Fill her up, Joe. I want to put some life into my frame. Such little drinks to a bum like me and miserably tame. Five fingers, there, that's the scheme, and corking whiskey, too. Well, here's Luck Boys and Landlord, my best regards to you. You treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty salt you see before you now. As I told you once, I was a man with muscle, frame, and health, and but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth. I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks and wood, but an artist, and for my age was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fair to rise, for gradually I saw the start of fame before my eyes. I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, that is called the Chase of Fame. It brought me 1500 pounds and added to my name, and then I met a woman. Now comes the funny part, with eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart. Why don't you laugh? Tis funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman and expect her love for me. But twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given, and when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven. Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give, with a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live, with eyes that would beat the Coignure and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, twas she, for there never was another half so fair. I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way, and Madeleine admired it, and much to my surprise said, she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown, my friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone. And ere a year of misery had passed above my head, the jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead. That's why I took to drink, boys, why I never see you smile, I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the while. Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye. Come, laugh like me. It is only babes and women that should cry. Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey, I'll be glad, and I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score. You shall see the lovely Madeleine upon the bar room floor. Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began to sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. Then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek he leapt, and fell across the picture, dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Face on the Bar Room Floor by Hugh Antoine Darcy, read for LibriVox.org by Sean McConnell. It was a balmy summer evening and a googly crowd was there, which well might fill Joe's bar room on the corner of the square. And as songs and winty stories came to the open door, a vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. Why did it come from? Someone cried, but when does come it in? What does it want? Another cried, some whiskey rumble gin. Hey, it's Abbie. Sick of him. Didn't feel stomach sequel to the whack. I wouldn't touch him with a fork. He's filthy as a tack. This bandage the poor reg took was still a good grace. In face he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. Come boys, I know this kindly hum. It's among so good a crowd. To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. Give me a drink. That's what I want. I'm out of funds, you know. When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. What, you laugh as though my pocket has never held a sow? I was once fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. Now, thanks, that's braced me nicely. God bless you one and all. Next time I pass this good salute, I'll make another call. Give you a song? No, I can't do that. My singing days are past. My voice has cracked. My throat's worn out and my lungs are going fast. I'll tell you a funny story. In fact, I promise to. Say, give me another whiskey and I'll tell you what I'll do. That I was never a decent man, not one of you would think. But I was some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink. Fill her up, Joe. I want to put some life into my frame. There's little drinks to a bum like me on miserably tame. Five fingers. There, that's the scheme. And corking whiskey, too. Well, here's luck, boys. And landlord, my best regards to you. You've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you how. I came to be the dirty soft you see before you now. And as I told you, once I was a man with muscles, frame, and health, and butch for a blunder ought to have made considerable wealth. I was a painter, not one that dobbled on bricks and wood. But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good. I worked hard as my canvas and was bidding fair to rise, for gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. And I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, just called the chase of fame. It brought me 1,500 pounds and added to my name. And then I met a woman, now comes the funny part, with eyes that touch or fight in my brain and sunk into my heart. Why don't you laugh? It's as funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman and expect her love for me. But twice so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given and when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven. Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you give with a form like the me low-vinus, too beautiful to live? With eyes that would beat the cojinal and a wealth of chestnut hair, if so, to what she for there was never another half so fair. I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May, but fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way. And Madeleine admired it, and much to my surprise, said she liked to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. Didn't take long to know him and before the month had flown, my friend had stole my darling and I was left alone. And near a Jew year of misery had passed above my head, the jewel I had treasured so much tarnished and was dead. That's why I took the drink, boys. Why never see you smile? I thought you'd be so amused and laughing all the while. Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye. Come, laugh like me. There's only babes and women that should cry. Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey, I'll be glad. Now draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you barked at my false goal. You shall see the lovely Madeleine upon the bar room floor. Another drink, and it was chalk in hand, the vagabond began to sketch a face that well might by the soul of any man. Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture, dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.