Tag: Roy K. Moulton

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

Of all the fossels in our town,
    Si Haskins was the boss.
He said the autymobile never
    Would replace the hoss.
He always used to sneer and snort
    Whenever one went by,
And when he’d see one busted down,
    He’d laugh until he’d cry.
He said the owners all were fools
    To go and spend their dough
For them gol ding contrivances
    That never seemed to go.
Them devil wagons got his goat,
    He’d never fall for one.
Of all the gol-dum foolishness,
    Gas wagons took the bun.

One day a nephew died and left
    An old one-lung machine
A-standing out in old Si’s barn.
    Si got some gasoline
And poured it in the gosh durned thing
    To see if it would start.
He cranked her up and thought he’d try
    To drive the old gas cart.
He drove it down the road all right,
    Forgettin’ all his care,
And rode around till almost night
    And visited everywhere.
Next morning bright and early he
    Was poundin’ down the street.
He scared the hosses right and left
    And knocked folks off their feet.

A week from then he bought a car.
    It was of high hoss power.
He didn’t take time off to eat,
    But drove it every hour.
He raced with everybody who
    Showed up within a mile
He said you might as well be dead
    As not to be in style.
His whiskers blew out in the breeze,
    As down the road he flew.
He said: “I’ll show those gol ding boobs
    A fancy trick or tew.”
He spent all of his waking hours
    In showing them new tricks.
Four cylinders became too tame,
    And so he bought a six.

He’s been arrested nineteen times
    For speedin’, so they say.
He got his whiskers all shaved off,
    For they got in his way.
He talks of touring cars all day
    And dreams of them at night,
And nowadays whene’er he sees
    A piece of horseflesh pass
He sort of chuckles, sneering like,
    And hollers out: “No class.”

From The Topeka State Journal, February 21, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

I’d like to be a diplomat and live in foreign climes,
For diplomats are made much of and have some glorious times.
A diplomat is always sought by potentates and kings.
They hang him full of medals and a number of such things.

A diplomat is one who can make black look just like white.
He talks about a wrong until you really think it’s right.
His language is so polished that it slips off from his tongue
So readily that you believe the song that he has sung.

He calls a man a liar, but his way gives no offense.
He makes the other party think hard names are compliments.
He is a master in the art of gentle subterfuge;
He has a nerve colossal and vocabulary huge.

But still I know that I will never be a diplomat,
I’m too much of a roughneck. I’m very sure of that.
For I have tried it many times and can’t, to save my life,
Fake up an explanation that will even fool my wife.

From The Topeka State Journal, February 16, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

Ezry Haskins was a feller
With a disposition meller;
Never graspin’, never greedy,
Always helped the poor and needy.
Ezry made an honest million
And he might have made a billion
If he hadn’t always parted
In a manner open-hearted
With such liberal wads of boodle.
Never got it in his noodle
That Dame Fortune’s always fickle,
And he should save every nickel.
When ’twas too late to repent it,
Ezry found that he had spent it—
All that he’d accumulated.
Carriage to the poorhouse waited,
Ezry passed to life eternal
And the home town’s weekly journal
Hardly gave him any mention,
He attracted no attention.
It was just a “Village Jottin,”
Poor old Ezry was forgotten.

Hiram Haskins, Ezry’s brother,
Seemed like he was of another
Breed of cattle—and he looked it,
If there was a cent, he hooked it.
He was miserly and graspin’,
And his voice was hard and raspin’.
He was always with the bidders
On the mortgages of widders.
He grew most amazin’ wealthy,
In a manner sharp and stealthy,
Even when so rich he couldn’t
Count his piles of gold he wouldn’t
Give a nickel to the needy,
He was that tarnation greedy.
But the folks all catered to him,
And gave him all honors due him,
And his funeral was glorious,
Like an emperor victorious,
And the paper had a column
Of a notice sad and solemn,
And the whole town joined in grieving
O’er the old man who was leaving.

We don’t know what happened to ‘em
When they both got what was due ‘em,
But we bet old Hi is wishin’
Fer a change in his condition—
Wishin’ the eternal graces
Would let him and Ez trade places.

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

When he made just three plunks a week
    He thought if he made five
He’d surely be the happiest
    Young business man alive.
He finally got five a week,
    But wasn’t happy then.
He never would be satisfied
    Until he pulled down ten.
When he got ten a week he thought
    His compensation mean;
He knew he’d reach his heart’s desire
    If he could get fifteen.
He got his fifteen, then he knew
    A person could not thrive
In this expensive day and age
    On less than twenty five.
He finally got twenty five,
    The sum he’d thought so nifty,
But found he couldn’t be content
    And live on less than fifty.
He got his fifty one fine day,
    And then he found out that
He never could be happy quite
    Without one hundred flat.
He made some wise deals after that
    And gathered in a million.
But was he happy? No, indeed,
    He had to have a billion.
And it is safe to say that if
    He really got his billion,
Old age could find him fighting to
    Accumulate a trillion.

From The Topeka State Journal, February 6, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

They’ve got him in a padded cell,
    He raves from morn till night.
He has a pencil and a slate,
    And writes with all his might.

He sets a lot of figures down,
    Then rubs them out again,
Upon his face there is a look
    That is akin to pain.

He’s had this slate for seven months,
    The pencil squeaks and squeaks;
He concentrates upon the job,
    And never sanely speaks.

They’re watching him both day and night,
    Their care is never lax.
He’s trying but to figure out
    His income tax.

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

A burglar came to my house,
I did not say a word,
I did not hoot,
I did not shoot
To let him know I heard.
I let him search my mansion,
I cuddled up in bed,
Pretended sleep,
I did not peep,
But let him think me dead.
I knew what he was after:
The key to my garage.
He found it, too.
He would, I knew,
And then I saw him dodge
Out of the door right quickly,
I followed him that far.
He looked around,
Surveyed the ground,
And then he stole my car.
I smiled and laughed and cackled
Until I thought I’d croak,
To see a bold
Bad burglar sold—
’Twas a delicious joke.
I went back to my slumbers
As happy as could be.
I’d lost my car
Ho-ho, har-har,
I’d saved some dough, maybe.
But soon I was awakened
Familiar with the sound,
The same old clang,
The same old bang,
The same old grind and pound.
He’d driven it ten minutes.
That guy gives me a pain.
It made such a fuss
The ornery cuss
Had brought it back again.

From The Topeka State Journal, December 18, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

Cabbage on the second floor,
    Liver on the first;
What is being cooked next door?
    Must be wienerwurst.

Onions? You can bet two hats
    What a cook prepares
Anywhere around our flats
    Everybody shares.

From The Topeka State Journal, December 8, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

Lying one day neath the auto,
    Sweating and soaked with oil;
I worked at a cranky engine
    And my only reward was toil.

I know not what I was saying,
    As I tinkered and wrenched and tore;
I doubt not ’twas something quite savage,
    It may be I even swore.

My patience gave out on that engine,
    With a hammer I hit it a thump
That jarred loose some thingamadinkus
    And started it up at a jump.

Before one could twinkle an eyelid,
    Before there was time for surprise,
That car tore away down the highway,
    And I lay glaring up at the skies.

I sprang up and madly I followed,
    But soon gave it up in disgust,
For that runaway car quickly vanished
    In a thick snorting cyclone of dust.

I sought it in byways and hedges,
    In highways and in busy streets;
And, though I made thorough inquiries,
    With never a trace did I meet.

Perhaps in some future existence,
    In worlds far beyond mortal’s ken,
I shall once more make search for that auto,
    But I doubt if I find it then.

From The Topeka State Journal, November 26, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton.

Gas turned low,
    They confess
Their romance.
    She says Yes,
Date is named,
    Cards sent out.
Soon they’re on
    Marriage route.
Friends all say,
    “Dandy match,
She’s a queen,
    He’s a ‘catch.’”
Thing’s all right
    For a while.
He’s for clubs,
    She’s for style.
Chorus girl
    Soon he sees,
Sends her flowers
    Just to please.
Wife finds out,
    Doesn’t care;
Goes abroad
    Everywhere.
Lawyer starts
    Then, of course,
Wife’s suit
    For divorce.
Husband fails
    To appear
In the court
    Or come near.
Get divorce
    Without a flaw;
They both yell,
    “Hip Hurrah.”
Alimony
    Paid each week.
Now they’re friends,
    So they speak.