Tag: Berton Braley

From The Seattle Star, September 20, 1913. By Berton Braley.

The world’s a rotten hole,
It is, upon my soul,
    No place to live in;
There’s no one on the square
And people everywhere
    By greed are driven.
I haven’t any vim or real ambition
And all my plans are going to perdition.

The weather’s on the bum,
The future’s looking glum,
    Fate crowds and shoves me.
A pall of gloom descends,
I haven’t any friends,
    Nobody loves me.
If some one said, “Cheer up,”—well, I’d waylay him
And grab a heavy bludgeon—and I’d slay him!

The cheerfullest of men
Gets like this, now and then,
    And bile and choler
When life just makes him sore,
And he will kick and roar,
    And swear and holler;
So let me rage and snort with temper fearful,
And when the fit is over I’ll be cheerful.

From The Seattle Star, September 1, 1913. By Berton Braley.

Out of chaos, out of murk
I arose and did my work
While the ages changed and sped
I was toiling for my bread
Underneath my sturdy blows
Forests fell and cities rose
And the hard, reluctant soil
Blossomed richly from my toil.
Palaces and temples grand
Wrought I with my cunning hand.
Rich indeed was my reward—
Stunted soul, and body scarred
With the marks of scourge and rod
I, the tiller of the sod
From the cradle to the grave
Shambled through the world—a slave!
Crushed and trampled, beaten, cursed,
Serving best, but served the worst,
Starved and cheated, gouged and spoiled
Still I builded, still I toiled
Undernourished, underpaid
In the world myself had made.

Up from slavery I rise,
Dreams and wonder in my eyes,
After brutal ages past
Coming to my own at last
I was slave—but I am free!
I was blind—but I can see!
I, the builder, I the maker,
I, the calm tradition-breaker,
Slave and serf and clod no longer,
Know my strength—and who is stronger?
I am done with ancient frauds,
Ancient lies and ancient gods—
All that sham is overthrown,
I shall take and keep my own
Unimpassioned, unafraid,
Master of the World I’ve made!

From The Seattle Star, August 18, 1913. By Berton Braley.

Dear lady of my heart’s desire,
    I love your lithe and slender grace,
Your rhythmic ease I much admire,
    I like the dancing steps you pace;
Your every move is my delight,
    So dainty and so brisk and free
You are a most entrancing sight—
    Oh, won’t you trot through life with me?

With love the fiddler for the dance
    And hearts as merry as a rhyme
We’ll turkey trot a glad romance
    In syncopated two-step time,
Though care should tread upon our toes
    And rough and bumpy be the floor,
We’d laugh at troubles such as those
    And gayly turkey trot some more!

Come then, my love, and be my wife
    And take the fate that fortune sends;
We’ll tango pleasantly through life
    And one-step till the music ends;
We’ll buy a rag-time gramophone
    With syncopated melody,
If you will only be my own
    And turkey-trot through life with me!

From The Seattle Star, July 16, 1913. By Berton Braley.

Now Adam most probably knew
    Much more about life than his son,
But I’ll warrant his son snorted, “Pooh,”
    When father told what should be done.

Like many a boy who is bright,
    He said, “The Old Man’s on the Shelf.”
Well—he learned that his father was right,
    But he had to find out for himself.

And so it has gone down the years,
    The young ever doubting the old
And suffering sorrow and tears
    Because they refuse to be told.

Each girl—oh, you couldn’t tell her;
    Each boy was a wise little elf
And so, as was bound to occur,
    He had to find out for himself.

Through trouble and sorrow and pain
    We gather the little we know,
And then when we try to explain
    Our children just laugh as they go.

You laughed at the words of your dad
    (And you’ve paid both in worry and pelf)
And you’ll get the same deal from your lad,
    For he has to find out for himself!

From The Seattle Star, July 14, 1913. By Berton Braley.

There’s many a viand that pleases my taste
And adds to my joy and the girth of my waist.
I’m fond of ice cream and of crackers and cheese
And terrapin, too, with my palate agrees;
Of food that is simple and food that is rare
I find I can utilize all of my share,
But wondrous, indeed, are the inroads I make
On cold mashed potatoes and left-over steak!

Ah, me! How I pity the mortal who dwells
In big boarding houses or costly hotels.
No matter how richly and grandly he dines,
With French-fried dishes and notable wines,
He never can know the delights of the deed
Of raiding the icebox in search of a feed;
He never can know what it is to partake
Of cold mashed potatoes and left-over steak.

For when the fore part of the evening has sped
And the stomach expresses a wish to be fed,
To satisfy hunger that follows the play,
I have no desire for the gaudy cafe;
Ah, no! I would stick to my regular hunch
And dig in the icebox in search of my lunch.
At home, in the kitchen, my fast I would break
With cold mashed potatoes and left-over steak.