Rebel Voices
Page 17
While the Bulls are safely resting home in bed,
And they sadly sit and ponder on the days when they ate pie,
And occasionally some moldy punk instead.
But now they’re living high when a chicken coop is nigh,
For the ranchers send them chicken every day,
So to the jungles they skidoo to dine on chicken stew
Where the silvery Colorado wends its way.
Chorus
There’s a Bo ‘neath every tree,
And they are happy as can be,
For the chewings ‘round that place are good, they say.
For they have chicken galore
And they know where there is more,
Where the silvery Colorado wends its way.
4
This was one of the four songs printed on a folded colored card which I.W.W. members sold for ten cents in the Northwest area around 1907–08. It was sung to the tune of “Where Is My Wandering Boy Tonight?” and was printed in the third edition of the I.W.W. songbook. Its author is unknown.
MY WANDERING BOY*
(Tune: “Where Is My Wandering Boy Tonight?”)
Where is my wandering boy tonight,
The boy of his mother’s pride?
He’s counting the ties with his bed on his back,
Or else he is bumming a ride.
Chorus:
Oh, where is my boy tonight?
Oh, where is my boy tonight?
He’s on the head end of an overland train—
That’s where your boy is tonight.
His heart may be pure as the morning dew,
But his clothes are a sight to see.
He’s pulled for a vag, his excuse won’t do.
“Thirty days,” says the judge, you see.
Oh, where is my boy tonight?
Oh, where is my boy tonight?
The chilly wind blows, to the lock-up he goes,
That’s where your boy is tonight.
“I was looking for work, Oh Judge,” he said.
Says the judge, “I have heard that before.”
So to join the chain gang far off—he is led
To hammer the rocks some more.
Oh, where is my boy tonight?
Oh, where is my boy tonight?
To strike many blows for his country he goes,
That’s where your boy is tonight.
Don’t search for your wandering boy tonight,
Let him play the old game if he will—
A worker, or bum, he’ll ne’er be right,
So long’s he’s a wage slave still.
Oh, where is my boy tonight?
His money is “out of sight”
Wherever he “blows,” up against it he goes.
Here’s luck!—to your boy tonight.
5
This unsigned song was included in the third edition of the I.W.W. songbook. A later edition of the songbook cites the tune as “Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread.”
OUT IN THE BREAD-LINE
Out in the bread-line, the fool and the knave
Out in the bread-line, the sucker and slave,
Coffee and doughnuts now take all our cash,
We’re on the bum and we’re glad to get hash.
Chorus:
Out in the bread-line, rain or the sunshine
We’re up against it today,
Out in the bread-line, watching the job-sign,
We’re on the bum, boys, today.
The employment office now ships east and west,
Jobs are quite scarce—they are none of the best;
The grub it is rocky—a discount we pay,
We are dead broke, and we’ll have to eat hay.
Chorus:
We are the big bums, the hoboes and “vags,”
O, we look hungry, our clothes are all rags,
While a fat grafter, sky pilot or fake,
Laughs at our troubles and gives us the shake.
Chorus:
O, yes, we’re the suckers, there’s no doubt of that,
We live like dogs, and the boss he gets fat,
God help his picture taken once we get wise,
He’ll be the bum and we’ll be the swell guys.
6
This biblical parody appeared in the Industrial Worker (July 2, 1910).
THE FLIGHT INTO CALIFORNIA
By W. METCALF
Chapter 12
(1) And it came to pass in the city which is called Dunsmuir, which is near the Mount which is called Shasta.
(2) As we tarried in the wilderness which is called the jungles.
(3) We came upon a man lying by the roadside who had been set upon by thieves
(4) And robbed of many shekels by the employment thieves in the city which is called Portland, in the land of Oregon.
(5) Wherefore we gave him gump mulligan and bread and much good advice
(6) That he might return from whence he came and join the I.W.W. and cast out devils.
(7) That man may not be robbed of man for a job’s namesake.
(8) As we journeyed on our way taking neither wallet nor staff, but only overalls and labor power, that we might serve the master for the lousy dollar
(9) We came unto the place which is called Cottonwood, a Sabbath day’s journey from Red Bluffs.
(10) There by the River we beheld many man servants.
(11) And we went unto their camp, saying:
(12) Repent ye, for the rule of craft unions neareth an end. And as we spoke unto them they marveled, saying:
(13) Who are these men? that they cast out Gomperite devils in the name of Industrial Unionism?
(14) And they were sore afraid, lest the master behold them listening to the Gospel of I.W.W.-ism.
(15) And seeing their plight, we went our way rejoicing.
(16) And it came to pass as we went our way, casting out Patriotic and Political Devils, that we came unto the City which is called Sacto, where were multitudes of people.
(17) And we spake unto them, saying:
(18) Man gets but little here below, and if ye would that ye have more,
(19) Strike not at the ballot box
(20) Lest ye strike it with a great axe and cast it forth into outer darkness, where there shall be weeping and wailing and gnashing of political freaks’ teeth.
(21) But organize into the Union which is called of man I.W.W. for your own sake.
Chapter 13
(1) Wherefore we took ourselves apart from the multitude and came unto the city which is called Stockton.
(2) Where dwelleth one called Bill which is surnamed Scissor, and seeing him sore afflicted with patriotic leprosy we administered unto him much Industrial Unionism.
(3) Saying unto him, Go thou into the harvest and work for a dollar,
(4) And when the harvest is ripe and thy lord needeth thee sorely
(5) Strike for two dollars, saying unto thy lord:
(6) Behold, thy fruit goeth unto the devil, pay us two dollars or great shall be the destruction thereof.
(7) As we journeyed forth we passed by a Roman soldier which is called of men State Bull.
(8) Casting out Blanket Stiffs for his job’s sake. And all these things that the words of Industrial Unionism might be fulfilled—that man owneth not his job, and he is a wage slave, anyhow.
7
This article appeared in Solidarity (June 3, 1911).
A VOICE FROM THE JUNGLES
By TYLER WILLIAMS
(Special to Solidarity)
Sheridan, Wyoming, May 24
I was at Crawford, Nebraska, last week doing a little eight-hour talk; also looking for a master. Things were quiet, and there was a featherweight “Bill Sunday” in town so I thought I would go over and hear him spout. People said he was fine.
Industrial Worker, July 16, 1910.
After the head sky pilot had delivered his message on the “prodigal son” and a pretty girl sang “Where Is My Wandering
Boy?” (I wanted to tell her that there was a bunch of them down in the jungles but I kept quiet), the head spouter announced that those prodigal sons and daughters who wanted to return to the father could manifest their desire by coming up and shaking his delicate hand. While he continued his call from the platform he also told the good Christians to go out and speak to their friends personally. Well, a parson struck me and here is where the fun begins. He shook my hand and I said “How-da-do.” He didn’t say whether he was well or not but asked me whether I would not like to go up and take a stand for God? I asked him how he knew I hadn’t already. Then he said “Oh, have you?” and I told him that I had not. He asked if I didn’t want to, and I said “No.” Of course, he inquired why and I answered that my body was giving me more trouble just then than my soul was. Then he said “Seek ye first the kingdom of heaven and all these things will be added.” The dialog continued about as follows:
Hobo—That is good news for a hungry man. If you will guarantee me three square meals, a bed and a good job, I will go.
Parson—It is no trouble to find work; but as to a good job, you will have to prove yourself. I work. I never have any trouble finding employment.
Hobo—Your hand feels like it has been some time since you have hurt yourself. And as to proving myself, I will have to have a chance first. Could you tell me where I would find a job?
Parson—Why yes. There is a bureau for that purpose here.
Hobo—I have been there. There are a dozen jobs on the board and one inside. The rest have been taken if they ever existed. The shark wants $2.00 for the job he has—a farm job at $25.00. I can see where the farmer and the shark will win and I would lose. The bureau did not know whether I would have to sleep in the barn or not, and presumed I would have to work more than eight hours. Now, would you advise me to take that job?
I knew these guys were pretty liberal with their advise.
Parson—Well—er—yes; under the existing circumstances I would.
Hobo—I see that you are about as much concerned about my business as you are about my soul. What you would like to have me do is give my heart to God and my life to the boss.
Parson—Ah, my boy, you are making a grave mistake. The good book says: “God is not mocked,” and “Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord.”
Hobo—He is worse than I am. I don’t want any revenge. All I want is the goods. If I wanted revenge I would burn up half the box cars and bridges along the pike.
Parson—I hate to hear you talk that way.
Hobo—It does me good.
Just then the brother up front says “Let us pray.” My friend looked relieved and I felt grieved.
8
Titled “You Had Better Stay Away” this unsigned song appeared in the Industrial Worker (March 21, 1912). It was subsequently collected by George Milburn, printed in his The Hobo’s Hornbook (New York, 1930), and cited without source as an I.W.W. song. It also appeared in an undated booklet, Hobo Ballads (Cincinnati: Hobo College Press Committee) in the files of the Labadie Collection.
EVERYWHERE YOU GO
Things are dull in San Francisco,
On the hog in New Orleans,
Rawther punk in.cultured Boston,
Famed for codfish, God and beans.
On the fritz in Kansas City,
Out in Denver things are jarred;
Hear ’em beefing in Chicago
That the times are getting hard.
Same old hooey in St. Looie;
And all the more in Baltimore;
Coin don’t rattle in Seattle
Like it did in days of yore.
Jobs are scant around Atlanta,
All through Texas it is still
And there’s very little stirring
In the town of Looieville.
There’s a howl from Cincinnati,
New York City, Brooklyn, too;
In Milwaukee’s foamy limits
There is little work to do.
In the face of all such rumors,
It seems not far wrong to say
That no matter where you’re going,
You had better stay away.
9
George Milburn in The Hobo’s Hornbook (New York, 1930) cites these unsigned verses as an I.W.W. song. Titled “Society’s Bums,” the poem appeared in the Industrial Worker (July 25, 1955), signed by “Denver Din” Crowley. It was also included in an undated booklet, Hobo Ballads, titled “The Bum on the Rods and the Bum on the Plush.” Its original source is not known.
THE TWO BUMS
The bum on the rods is hunted down
As the enemy of mankind,
The other is driven around to his club
Is feted, wined and dined.
And they who curse the bum on the rods
As the essence of all that’s bad,
Will greet the other with a winning smile,
And extend the hand so glad.
The bum on the rods is a social flea
Who gets an occasional bite,
The bum on the plush is a social leech,
Blood-sucking day and night.
The bum on the rods is a load so light
That his weight we scarcely feel,
But it takes the labor of dozens of men
To furnish the other a meal.
As long as you sanction the bum on the plush
The other will always be there,
But rid yourself of the bum on the plush
And the other will disappear.
Then make an intelligent, organized kick,
Get rid of the weights that crush.
Don’t worry about the bum on the rods,
Get rid of the bum on the plush!
10
In The Hobo’s Hornbook, George Milburn wrote that Jim Seymour, a frequenter of “Bughouse Square” (Newberry Square) in Chicago, was one of the hobo’s favorite poets. Seymour’s poem, “The Dishwasher,” which first appeared in the I.W.W. press in the Industrial Worker (May 1, 1913) has been frequently reprinted in I.W.W. publications at the request of readers.
THE DISHWASHER
By JIM SEYMOUR
Alone in the kitchen, in grease-laden steam,
I pause for a moment, a moment to dream,
For even a dishwasher thinks of a day
Wherein will be leisure for rest and for play;
And now that I pause o’er the transom there floats
A stream of the Traumerei’s soul-stirring notes,
Engulft in a blending of sorrow and glee
I wonder that music can reach even me.
For now I am thinking, my brain has been stirred,
The voice of a master the lowly has heard,
The heart-breaking sob of the sad violin
Arouses the thoughts of the sweet “might have been”;
Had men been born equal the use of the brain
Would shield them from poverty, free them from pain,
Nor would I have sunk in the black social mire
Because of poor judgment in choosing a sire.
But now I am only a slave of the mill
That plies and remodels me just as it will,
That makes me a dullard in brain-burning heat
That looks at rich viands, not daring to eat;
That lives with its red, blistered hands ever stuck
Down deep in the foul indescribable muck
Where dishes are plunged, seventeen at a time,
And washt!—in a tubful of sickening slime!
But on with the clatter, no more must I shirk,
The world is to me but a nightmare of work;
For me not the music and laughter and song,
No toiler is welcomed amid the gay throng;
For me not the smiles of the ladies who dine,
No warm, clinging kisses begotten of wine;
For me but the venting of low, sweated groans
That twelve hours a night have installed in my bones.
The mus
ic has ceased, but the havoc it wrought
Within the poor brain it awakened to thought
Shall cease not at all, but continue to spread
Demonstration of unemployed, Union Square, New York City, 1913.
Till all of my fellows are thinking or dead.
The havoc it wrought? ‘Twill be havoc to those
Whose joys would be nil were it not for my woes.
Keep on with your gorging, your laughter and jest,
But never forget that the last laugh is best.
You leeches who live on the fat of the land,
You overfed parasites, look at my hand;
You laugh at it now, it is blistered and coarse,
But such are the hands quite familiar with force;
And such are the hands that have furnished your drink,
The hands of the slaves who are learning to think,
And hands that have fed you can crush you as well
And cast your damned carcasses clear into hell!
Go on with the arrogance born of your gold,
As now are your hearts will your bodies be cold;
Go on with your airs, you creators of hates,
Eat well, while the dishwasher spits on the plates;
But while at your feast let the orchestra play
The life-giving strains of the dear Marseillaise
That red revolution be placed on the throne
Till those who produce have come into their own.
But scorn me tonight, on the morn you shall learn
That those whom you loathe can despise you in turn,
The dishwasher vows that his fellows shall know
That only their ignorance keeps them below.
Your music was potent, your music hath charms,
It hardened the muscles that strengthen my arms,
It painted a vision of freedom, of life—
Tomorrow I strive for an ending of strife.
11
Ralph Chaplin sent the manuscript of this poem to Miss Agnes Inglis, who included it in a file of his poems and cartoons in the Labadie Collection. On the manuscript Chaplin wrote that it was composed after a group of homeless men, led by Frank Tannenbaum, had been thrown out of the Church of St. Alphonsus in New York City in March 1914. Tannenbaum, a bus boy, who had come to the United States in 1905 from Austria, asked a Father Schneider if his group of 250 unemployed homeless men could find shelter in the church. The police arrived and evicted the men. Tannenbaum was charged with vagrancy and sentenced to Blackwell’s Island. On his release from prison a year later, he took an undergraduate degree at Columbia University and, later, a Ph.D. at Brookings Institute. A member of the History Department at Columbia University, he has written books on Latin American economic history as well as on criminology and prison reform.