Sat Anarchist Gon Fanfew
Notching the ears of his light-o’-love,
A murderess known as Lou.
When out of the night where the bullets hummed,
Into the smoking dive
A stranger shot his way within,
Waving a forty-five.
He came with a run as he pulled his gun
And he fired shot three or four
And then he gathered the bodies up
And hove them out the door.
He cut the throat of the music-girl
And sat down on the stool
And if that fellow couldn’t play,
Well, I’m a Royal fool.
He played such tunes as the “Cutthroat’s League”
And “The Murderer’s March” and then
He swung into a tune of his own,
’Twas much like “The Devil’s Den”.
He played of the far-famed “good-old-days”
Sweethearts and lover’s moon,
And as he played we seemed to see
A snug and cozy saloon.
And the rush of the Royal troops,
He shifted the accordion screws,
“No work, no pay!” it seemed to say,
And we shrieked our lust for booze.
And then the stranger wheeled about
And he pulled out his gun,
“And boys,” said he, “you don’t know me
But you will before I’m done.”
“I’ve got some word I wish to say
And they are but a few
But one of you is a bourgeoisie
And that one is Gon Fanfew!”
I ducked and somebody set off a fuse
Two bombs blazed in the dark
Somebody started throwing knives
And guns began to bark.
Somebody blew the roof clear off
And the Northern Lights streamed in
Somebody set the saloon on fire
And splashed the walls with gin.
Pitched on his head and widely spread
Lay Anarchist Gon Fanfew
And there with the stranger’s head in her hand
Lay the woman known as Lou.
But The Hill Were Ancient Then
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Now is a summer come out of the sea,
And the hills that were bare are green.
They shower the petals and the bee
On the valleys that laze between.
So it was in the dreaming past,
And life is a shifting maze,
Summer on summer fading fast,
In a mist of yesterdays.
Out of the East, the tang of smoke,
The flight of the startled deer,
A ringing axe the silence broke,
The tread of the pioneer.
Saxon eyes in a weathered face,
Cabins where trees had been,
Hard on the heels of a fading race,
But the hills were ancient then.
Up from the South a haze of dust,
The pack mules' steady pace,
Armor tarnished and red with rust,
Stern eyes in a sun-bronzed face.
The mesquite mocked the flag of Spain,
That the wind flung out again,
The grass bent under the pack mule train—
But the hills were ancient then.
The Chinese Gong
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StrumaSTRUM, struma strum struma strum strum strum!
Roaring out the rally o’er the rumble of the drum!
Talking down the cannon with its boomaloomaboom!
Catchee plentee killee on the river plentee soon!
Shouting down to Canton with the Yellow River scum
Shaking coral buttons in a Holy City room.
Stroomabooma stroomabooma boom boom boom!
Daring decent devils like demoniacal doom.
Soom plentee plunder ‘long the Yellow River’s junks!
Hoomalooma hoomalooma strum stroom strum!
Streaming from the mountains are a million yellow monks.
Sellee loot to Melican and catchee plentee rum.
Yellow feet a-clatter on the clumpy cobbled street
Shouting of the shikars where the shore and river meet.
Roaring at the rumor of a raiding rider seen.
Lanterns in pagodas with a glimmer blue and green.
Sellee loot to Melican, chatchee Hong Kong.
—Yelling tinkling tales to a terrible tong.
Struma strooma strumastrooma kongalongbong!
Listen to the clatter of the Chinese gong.
The Choir Girl
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I have a saintly voice, the people say;
With Elder Blank I send the music winging—
I smile and compliment him on his singing—
By God, I'd rather hear a jackass bray.
I nod and smile to all the pious sisters—
I wish their rears were stung with seven blisters.
That youthful minister, so straight and slim—
I'd trade my soul for one long night with him.
Crete
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The green waves wash above us
Who slumber in the bay
As washed the tide of ages
That swept our race away.
Our cities - dusty ruins;
Our galleys - deep sea slime;
Our very ghosts, forgotten,
Bow to the sweep of Time.
Our land lies stark before it
As we to alien spears,
But, ah, the love we bore it
Outlasts the crawling years.
Ah, jeweled spires at even -
The lute's soft golden sigh -
The Lion-Gates of Knossos
When dawn was in the sky.
Dead Man’s Hate
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They hanged John Farrel in the dawn amid the marketplace;
At dusk came Adam Brand to him and spat upon his face.
"Ho neighbors all," spake Adam Brand, "see ye John Farrel's fate!
"Tis proven here a hempen noose is stronger than man's hate!
For heard ye not John Farrel's vow to be avenged upon me
Come life or death? See how he hangs high on the gallows tree!"
Yet never a word the people spoke, in fear and wild surprise-
For the grisly corpse raised up its head and stared with sightless eyes,
And with strange motions, slow and stiff, pointed at Adam Brand
And clambered down the gibbet tree, the noose within its hand.
With gaping mouth stood Adam Brand like a statue carved of stone,
Till the dead man laid a clammy hand hard on his shoulder bone.
