Tag: Roy K. Moulton

From The Topeka State Journal, October 22, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

By gum, I hate to go to school;
I’d almost rather be a fool.
I got to set in there all day
When I ort to go out and play.
I think it is a doggone bluff
To make us learn a lot of stuff
Which we ain’t never goin’ to use,
Just look at all the time we lose.
Who cares if Nero burned up Rome,
Or if the world is round or flat?
I don’t, and I will tell you that.

I have to get licked every day,
It somehow seems to come that way.
If some kid don’t perform the trick,
The teacher does it with a stick.
And when the teacher licks me bad
I always get one more from dad.
There’s nearly always somethin’ wrong
Right from the first tap of the gong.
There ain’t no peace for any kid
Who goes to school as I have did.
It makes me stubborn as a mewl,
By gum, to have to go to school.

From The Topeka State Journal, September 28, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

Rah, Rah, Rah,
Zip, Boom, Bah.
    Old familiar sound.
See ‘em wince,
Bring the splints,
    Call the doctors round.
Mama’s boy,
Pride and joy,
    Laid out in the fray;
Five ribs broke,
What a joke,
    Dandy work, Hurray!
Kick their shins,
Break their chins,
    Tie ‘em in a knot.
Beat ‘em up,
Eat ‘em up,
    Drag ‘em ‘round a lot.
Smash the line;
Gee! Thats fine.
    Let no man escape.
Kill the ends,
Make their friends
    Put on yards of crepe.
Do your worst;
Do it first;
    There’s no law to fear.
Rah, Rah, Rah.
Zip, Boom, Bah.
    Football season’s here.

From The Topeka State Journal, September 25, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

The purtiest woman that I ever see,
I’ll tell you the truth, jest between you an’ me.
She isn’t no dazzler, and some fellers might
Not stop to look twice, but she’s my choice all right.
She’s not so blamed strong for the thing they call style,
She don’t wear her hair in a half-bushel pile.
The beauty shops never make much off’n her.
She don’t have her gowns made in Paris; no, sir!
She don’t strut around like a peacock and pose.
She don’t keep a-daubin’ white stuff on her nose.

I have heard of the beauties of Spain and of France,
But with me they would not stand a ghost of a chance.
I have gazed upon paintings of world famous queens,
And I’ve seen a good many made-up actorines,
But the woman who used to bounce me on her knee;
She’s the purtiest woman that I ever see.

From The Topeka State Journal, September 23, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While a short snooze I was snatching,
    Suddenly there came a scratching, and ’twas on my chamber door.
“’Tis no visitor,” I muttered, “scratching at my chamber door.
    Just the cat and nothing more.”

I knew what the cat expected, and I knew I was elected
    So I grabbed the noisy feline to perform my nightly chore.
Down the cold stairway I hurried while the chilly breezelets scurried
    Round my shins and then I let him safely out the kitchen door.
I had put him out so often that it really made me sore,
    Simply that and nothing more.

Back to my hall room I ambled and into the bed I scrambled,
    When I heard a fearful wailing that I’d often heard before.
’Twas the same old caterwauling and the same old feline calling,
    As he vainly tried to get in at the self-same kitchen door.
Then I hastened down the stairway and was chilled through to the core,
    Just to let him in once more.

From The Topeka State Journal, September 4, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

Some years ago my father drove an ancient piebald mare,
And when he met a motor car he’d scowl at it and glare.
Would he turn out? No, not a bit. He’d try to hog the road.
When they would ask him to give way he’d yell, “I’ve got a load!”
His hatred for the gas machines was unrelenting, quite.
It was a mania with him; he talked it day and night.
He said that any feller who would drive one was a fool;
For father was a backward man, who followed the old school.

But things have changed since then a bit. Although for years he roared
About the gol-dum devil carts, he’s gone and bought a Ford.
He beats it round the countryside at thirty miles an hour,
And when an old horse heaves in sight he crowds on all his power.
He nearly busts with anger when he wants the right of way,
And hollers, “For the love of Mike, lay over there, you jay!”
He’s got the latest fol-de-rols, green goggles and the like;
He is the greatest motor fiend who ambles down the pike.
It’s just the same old story. Yes, indeed, it’s nothing new.
The war of horse and car depends upon the point of view.

From The Topeka State Journal, August 28, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

(A poem for every father.)

I’ve heard a lot of babies squall,
    I’ve heard ‘em east and west,
But after hearin’ of ‘em all,
    I like my kid’s yell best.

It doesn’t worry me a bit,
    For every time I hear
Him tune up to his heart’s content,
    It’s music to my ear.

Your own kid’s voice is always sweet,
    No matter what the key;
In all the world no one can sing
    So charmingly as he.

You think it’s cute when your own child
    Cuts loose with might and main;
It always is the neighbor’s kid
    That drives you half insane.

From The Topeka State Journal, April 29, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

It was near midnight’s holy hour,
    In vain we courted sleep;
The shadders was a-dancing round
    And made our nerves all creep,
When suddenly we heard a sound,
    A soft step on the stair;
We gazed into the hall, and lo,
    A burglar bold was there.

He acted perfectly at home,
    And never noticed us;
He went about his business
    Without the slightest fuss.
He must have known he was observed,
    Of that we could have vowed,
For when he took some of our stuff
    We chuckled right out loud.

When ma-in-law’s false teeth he took
    We smiled chuck full of glee.
This burglar was a kind gazabo,
    A jolly rogue was he.
And when he took Bill’s phonograph
    And dropped it in his sack,
We laughed so loud we could be heard
    To Timbuktu and back.

He carried off our coo-coo clock,
    And it ne’er more will tell
Of our arrival nightly and
    Sound our domestic knell.
And when he took our wife’s pink hat,
    We hate from tip to brim,
We felt like getting out of bed
    And shaking hands with him.

He took our parrot and we yelled
    Aloud in fiendish mirth,
And then got up and helped him pack
    For all that we were worth.
We handed him a good cigar
    And made him promise that
Whenever he came ‘round this way
    He’d burglarize our flat.

From The Topeka State Journal, April 11, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

Maggie Jones studied music and learned how to sing
And she went in quite strong for the grand opera thing.
When she visited home her reception was grand,
But her language the old folks could not understand
For she spoke with a strange, almost foreign accent
On account of her artistic temperament.

Henry Peck was the pride and the joy of his town
Till one day he leaped into a sudden renown
When he drew a cartoon which called forth glad acclaim
And secured a half-Nelson on old Mister Fame.
Then he quit work and hasn’t a single red cent,
On account of his artistic temperament.

Katie Binks made good money typewriting until
Someone told her she had fine artistic skill
And she went in for painting just three months ago
And she spent all her coin on a fine studio.
Katie’s just been ejected for missing the rent
On account of her artistic temperament.

From The Topeka State Journal, March 2, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

Old Ez Binks has always been
    Sort of saller like and ailin’;
Folks cannot remember when
    Ezra’s system was not failin’.
Folks say he enjoys poor health,
    And ain’t happy less he’s sickly;
When a new disease comes out,
    Ez grabs onto it right quickly.
He’s had every known disorder
    That the doctors have invented,
And he’s nearly crossed the border
    Five times, but was just prevented.
When Ez Binks was twenty-one
    Typhoid fever nearly took him;
He got over that and then
    Chills and fever grabbed and shook him.
Chicken pox and scarlet fever
    Came, and then appendicitis,
Measles, mumps, lumbago, grip,
    Rheumatism and tonsilitis.
Ezra now is ninety-four,
    At his fate he still is railin’;
He has not improved a bit
    And his health is still failin’,
But he will keep right on livin’,
    Chronic sick folks have that way;
And it looks as though they’d have to
    Shoot old Ez on judgment day.

From The Topeka State Journal, February 28, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

Last night as I lay sleeping,
    I had a dream so fair;
Methought I owned a hundred banks,
    With money everywhere.
My home was on Fifth Avenue,
    My servants all content;
It never strained my purse a bit
    To pay for clothes or rent.

I owned all sorts of motor cars,
    A nifty yacht and plane;
I rode where’er I pleased on earth
    And o’er the bounding main,
And in the midst of all my joy
    I got an awful shock;
My banks were closed by order of
    My old alarum clock.