Part 5 (1/2)

There's a wink from the ”traps”, And a meal with the j.a.ps, And a shuffle of cards as they go.

There's a trip to the play, A few ”smiles” by the way, And a box by themselves at the show.

O how slyly they wink As they sip at their drink, And maliciously help him to his; And he drinks it, alas!

'Though the foam on the gla.s.s Floats around with a death-dealing fizz.

Thus the night pa.s.ses by Till the victimized ”guy”

Is sufficiently ”doped” to ”go through”; And the stupefied lout, When he's finally out, Will possess but a nickel or two.

Wholly drunk, and half blind, With confusion of mind, And to rum-selling vultures a prey, He is found at the ”Mug”-- Takes a ride to the jug, And there slumbers his potions away.

Coming out the next morn, Sober, sick and forlorn, To a world that has quickly grown cold!

A poor outcast he roams While in sumptuous homes Whilom friends(?) are enjoying his gold.

Where is now the glib friend Of his bounty to lend The poor devil the price of a plate?

He has vanished like mist Of the morning, sun-kissed-- And the victim is left to his fate.

Not a wink from a la.s.s, Nor a clink from a gla.s.s, With ”your health”, as it's borne to the lips; Not a sign from a trap, Not a bite from a j.a.p-- All his suns.h.i.+ne has suffered eclipse!

Not a kindly ”invite”

From the friends of the night, To ”step in and have something on me.”

Not a drop from the fakes Just to steady the shakes, And to ”knock” the effects of the spree.

As he wanders the street Not one friend does he meet, Not a soul that will greet him today; ”Broke” and hungry--alone, With a heartrending moan, He must totter along to the bay.

O, the groans which now surge With the tones of a dirge From that soul so late given to song, And how scenes long since fled Like a wail from the dead, Rise to hasten his footsteps along.

Yea, dim memories rush To his mind, and a flush Of deep shame drives all pallor away, As he thinks of the East And the home he has lost By the life that leads on to the bay.

”Robbed and wronged all around,”

Is the sob of the sound, But no mortal comes forward to save; So with mutterings of wrath He goes down to his death Through the green, clammy depths of the waves.

Hark the tones of despair Which arise on the air From the shades of the low moaning bay; They will float through the years And encircle the spheres, And be heard at the great Judgment Day.

Soon a poor, bloated form, Tossed about by the storm, Floating 'round on the crest of each wave, With seaweed for a shroud, Is beheld by the crowd, And a failure is borne to his grave.

'Tis a jump from the train And a trip up on [A]Main, And a sip with a friend (?) on the way.

Just a step to the ”Mug”, And a ride to the ”jug”-- Then a leap to his death in the bay.

But the Lord from his seat Looketh down on each street, Where such h.e.l.l-born inventions are on, And with infinite wrath He will sweep on their path-- And they'll reap on that day what they've sown.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote A: Main Street, Seattle.]

GAGNE'S CAVALRY