For the month, the second of ten poems
I find interesting, amusing, and/or infuriating.
Verse from Robert E. Swanson's Rhymes of a Lumberjack (Toronto: Thomas Allen, 1943). The accompanying illustration is by Bert Bushell.
Not the sort of thing I expected from the publisher of "Poet Laureate of the Home" Edna Jaques.
THE TAME APES
Tame apes of the jungle they call us,
He-men of the forest are we;
Who spend our money on poker and booze,
And don't give a damn if we win or lose.
And a carefree life in the forest we choose,
On the slopes by the Western Sea.
We live a tough life when we're working,
We play just as rough in the town;
We're suckers for women who wear high heels,
With well-moulded bodies and looser ideals,
That trip down the street, dolled up in their seals;
Just waiting for us to come down.
We paint the town red when we're spending.
It's drinks on the house by the crock.
Then our friends are many, and women smile.
It's "What is your hurry? Please tarry a while."
But when she's all spent—we walk the last mile
Down to the Union dock.
Then it's "Give you an upper? The hell you say!
You bums can sleep on the floor!"
The world seems cold, and people will shun.
But a tame-ape brother won't see it undone—
He's still got a crock! ... the son of a gun!
So you step in his stateroom door.
"Say! ... Who's pushing' camp up at Kelley's?
They tell me you're running full slam.
Now the air is blue with cigarette smoke—
Someone is trying to tell you a joke;
You kinda forget you're going' broke
To the jungles: but who gives a damn?
So back to the jungles you're headin' once more—
To the brush where the tame-apes roam;
To the little old camp, by a railroad track,
Where the blue smoke curls from the bull cook's shack,
And the smell of the bunkhouse welcomes you back.
By Gawd! but you soon feel at home.
And before the dawn breaks in the morning,
From his bunk the tame-ape will roll.
While still it is dark, he heads for the brush;
When the push-ape hollers, he'll scramble and rush—
Get down on his knees, in the cold damp slush,
And scratch for his choker hole.
Soon the hooker will holler for the straw-line;
Then the apes in the brush don mad.
One runs with the end up the hill, sheer;
When he hollers out "Line!" you get in the clear,
And bound over logs and chunks like a deer;
If you're slow ... well, it's just too bad.
Then you think of the stake thhat you squandered.
And the plans that you conjured before;
So you make them again, in the very same way—
You'll head into town with your heard-earned pay;
But you know in your heart you'll be king for a day,
Then come back to the woods once more.
But life to a woodman is freedom,
Not measured in dollars sublime;
But to come and go and quit when he please,
Not beg for a job on bended knees.
No roadie to tycoons, with rich properties,
Who would see him in Hell—for a dime.
