Complete Works of James Joyce (331 page)
Read Complete Works of James Joyce Online
Authors: Unknown
There once was an author named Wel
l
s
There once was an author named Wells
Who wrote about science, not smells . . .
The result is a series of cells.
Solom
o
n
There’s a hairyfaced Moslem named Simon
Whose tones are not those of a shy man
When with cast iron lungs
He howls twentyfive tongues —
But he’s not at all easy to rhyme on.
D. L.
G
.
There’s a George of the Georges named David
With whose words we are now night and day fed
He cries: I’ll give small rations
To all the small nations.
Bully God made this world — but I’ll save it.
A Goldschmidt swam in a Kriegsvere
i
n
A Goldschmidt swam in a Kriegsverein
As wise little Goldschmidts do,
And he loved every scion of the Habsburg line,
Each Archduke proud, the whole jimbang crowd,
And he felt that they loved him, too.
Herr Rosenbaum and Rosenfeld
And every other Feld except Schlachtfeld
All worked like niggers, totting rows of crazy figures
To save Kaiser Karl and Goldschmidt, too.
Chorus:
For he said it is bet-bet-better
To stick stamps on some God-damned letter
Than be shot in a trench
Amid shells and stench,
Jesus Gott, Donnerwet-wet-wetter.
(Air: Mr. Dooley)
Who is the man when all the gallant nations run to war
Goes home to have his dinner by the very first cablecar
And as he eats his cantaloups contorts himself in mirth
To read the blatant bulletins of the rulers of the earth?
It’s Mr. Dooley,
Mr. Dooley,
The coolest chap our country ever knew
‘They are out to collar
The dime and dollar’
Says Mr. Dooley-ooley-ooley-oo.
Who is the funny fellow who declines to go to church
Since pope and priest and parson left the poor man in the lurch
And taught their flocks the only way to save all human souls
Was piercing human bodies through with dumdum bulletholes?
It’s Mr. Dooley,
Mr. Dooley,
The mildest man our country ever knew
‘Who will release us
From Jingo Jesus?’
Prays Mr. Dooley-ooley-ooley-oo.
Who is the meek philosopher who doesn’t care a damn
About the yellow peril or problem of Siam
And disbelieves that British Tar is water from life’s fount
And will not gulp the gospel of the German on the Mount?
It’s Mr. Dooley,
Mr. Dooley,
The broadest brain our country ever knew
‘The curse of Moses
On both your houses’
Cries Mr. Dooley-ooley-ooley-oo.
Who is the cheerful imbecile who lights his long chibouk
With pages of the pendect, penal code and Doomsday Book
And wonders why bald justices are bound by law to wear
A toga and a wig made out of someone else’s hair?
It’s Mr. Dooley,
Mr. Dooley,
The finest fool our country ever knew
‘They took that toilette
From Pontius Pilate,
Thinks Mr. Dooley-ooley-ooley-oo.
Who is the man who says he’ll go the whole and perfect hog
Before he pays an income tax or licence for a dog
And when he licks a postagestamp regards with smiling scorn
The face of king or emperor or snout of unicorn?
It’s Mr. Dooley,
Mr. Dooley,
The wildest wag our country ever knew
‘O my poor tummy
His backside gummy!’
Moans Mr. Dooley-ooley-ooley-oo.
Who is the tranquil gentleman who won’t salute the State
Or serve Nabuchodonosor or proletariat
But thinks that every son of man has quite enough to do
To paddle down the stream of life his personal canoe?
It’s Mr. Dooley,
Mr. Dooley,
The wisest lad our country ever knew
‘Poor Europe ambles
Like sheep to shambles!’
Sighs Mr. Dooley-ooley-ooley-oo.
Who is the sunny sceptic who fights shy of Noah’s arks
When they are made in Germany by Engels and by Marx
But when the social deluge comes and rain begins to pour
Takes off his coat and trousers and prepares to swim ashore?
It’s Mr. Dooley,
Mr. Dooley,
The bravest boy our country ever knew
With arms akimbo
‘I’ll find that rainbow!’
Shouts Mr. Dooley-ooley-ooley-oo.
There’s an anthropoid consul called Benne
t
t
There’s an anthropoid consul called Bennett,
With the jowl of a jackass or jennet,
He must muzzle or mask it
In the waste paper basket,
When he rises to bray in the Senate.
Up to rheumy Zurich came an Irishman one day
As the town was rather dull he thought he’d give a play
So that German propagandists might be rightly riled
But the bully British philistine once more made Oscar wild.
For the C. G. is not literairy
And his handymen are rogues
Our C. G.’s about as literairy
As an Irish kish of brogues.
We paid all expenses,
As the good Swiss public knows,
But we’ll be damn well damned before we pay for
Private Carr’s swank hose.
When the play was over Carr with rage began to dance,
Howling ‘I wanta twenty quid for them there dandy pants:
Fork us out the tin or comrade Bennett here and me,
We’re going to wring your bloody necks. We’re out for liberty.’
Chorus (as above)
They found a Norse solicitor to prove that white was black,
That one can boss in Switzerland beneath the Union Jack,
They marched to the Gerichtshof but came down like Jack and Jill,
While the pants came tumbling after . . . and the judge is laughing still.
No, the C. G. is not literairy
And his handymen are rogues,
Our C. G.’s about as literairy
As an Irish kish of brogues.
Goodbye, brother Bennett!
Goodbye, chummy Carr!
If you put a beggar upon horseback,
Why, ‘e dunno where ‘e are!
Oh! Budgeon, boozer, bard, and canvas dauber
If to thine eyes these lines should sometime come
Bethink thee that the fleshpots of old Egypt
Nothing avail if beauty’s heart would beat.
Wherefore forswear butter besmeared Ravioli
Which do the mainsprings of thy talent clog
On Roggenbrot, in Joghurt, and cold water,
Paint and be damned. We wait. Begin, and end.
A bard once in lakelapt Sirmio
n
e
A bard once in lakelapt Sirmione
Lived in peace, eating locusts and honey
Till a son of a bitch
Left him dry on the beach
Without clothes, boots, time, quiet or money.
The Right Heart in the Wrong Plac
e
Of spinach and gammon
Bull’s full to the crupper,
White lice and black famine
Are the mayor of Cork’s supper.
But the pride of old Ireland
Must be damnably humbled
If a Joyce is found cleaning
The boots of a Rumbold
S.O.S.
The Right Man in the Wrong Pla
c
e
(Air: My heart’s in my highlands)
The pig’s in the barley,
The fat’s in the fire:
Old Europe can hardly
Find twopence to buy her.
Jack Spratt’s in his office,
Puffed, powdered and curled:
Rumbold’s in Warsaw -
All’s right with the world!
O, Mr P
o
e
O, Mr Poe,
You’re very slow!
St Monsieur Valette
Il nous faut la galette!
So haste to ease us
For the love of Jesus!
Kreutzbomben,
Sakrament!
Yanks who hae wi’ Wallace read,
Yanks whom Joyce has often bled,
Welcome to the hard plank bed,
And bolschevistic flea.
Who for Bloom and Inisfail
Longs to pine in Sing Sing jail,
Picking oakum without bail,
Let him publish me.
