Newspapers / The Fool-Killer (Pores Knob, … / Dec. 1, 1921, edition 1 / Page 1
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Volume XL WHAT NEXT? Well .howdy, folks, howdy! I feel sorter rowdy, And I'm going to sing you a song About the disarming That looks so alarming, And seems to be taking so long. The cheap politicians Have held the positions Of leaders and rulers of men "So long they have gotten Exceedingly rotten, And all ought to be in the pen. They've wrecked every nation On top of creation, And got the whole world in a stow; They've kicked up a rucus Enough for to puke us, And' that is the best they can do. Now they've been a-tryin Their methods? of lying With great hypocritical skill; But still ain't succeeded In doing what's neeiod, And when do you reckon they will ? This Washington wrangle Was going to untangle The great international mess; But each fool endeavor Gets wusser than ever; They just as well quit it, I guess. When this thing is finished, And war UTidiminire-.L And all the world troubled and vexed, What kind of excuses 1 Will fit their abuses? I 'And what will they promise us next ? James Larkin Pearson. GIT UP HERE, SELUM! Conditions entirely beyond my control caused the November issue of The Fool-Killer to be more than a month late. It has just now gone into the mail on Dec. 16th. And so, in order to get out the December issue before the month is gone, I am compelled to rush up the copy very hur neaiy, print ana mail it m a gallop, and put it into the rmst- office right on the heels of the November issue.; Ana tnereiore it the luice in this issue seems to be of a sorry grade, or if there is no juice at all, you will know the reason. 2 am. standing on my head this weeK ana Kicking every way at once. loomer, North Carolina, December, 1921. GOIN' SOME. In days that are ended, Whenever we wended To town an' attended Tlie show, We sat in the saddle While Dobbin would paddle Through mud to his straddle, You know. , The faithful old plower, By taxin' his power, Made three miles an hour, At most; Arrivin' in Dover, We fed him soirfe stover, An' threw the reins over A post. Still others arrivin', Both ridhY, an driving The little town's thrivin Increased. They met there together In suitable weather, ( An each had to tether His beast. A custom' unf ailin Had long been prevailin' To. put up a railin' At which The folks with a toney Fat horse or a bohey Old nag or a pony Could hitch. So there they stood pawiri An' bitin' an gnawm An' maybe he-hawm All day. While folks were defendin' Their rights or attendm' To business an spendin Their pay. But folks in a hurry Would trouble an' worry Because the old surry Was slow. They , seemed to be needhV Some method of speedm Entirely exceedin' Old Joe. Inventors were plyin' HTheir trade an a-tryin Their luck at supplyin' The need; The little Tin Lizzie Got active an busy, An made the world dizzy With speed. The gasoline motor Was able to tote 'er, An' outrun a goat or A sheep; 7 It was an attraction To see her in action, But hills were a fraction Too steep. At first it was chuggy, This gasoline buggy, An people talked uggy, (Aside) ; But, spite of the bumpin An' jerkin an thumpin'. They'd all want to jump in An' ride. Inventors so darin Kept on a-preparin' Till they had put air in The wheels ; The people were taught a New lesson an bought 3 Great number of auto- Mobiles. nrw- vork without britchin', They go without switchin', They stand without hitchin', Therefore These new demonstrations Of changin' relations Require hitchin'-stations No more. The bit an' the bridle Are rusty an idle, An' people who ride 11 Agree The steerin'-wheel 's winner, With qualities in 'er That e'en the beginner Can see. The old livery stable Is no longer able To poke up its gable In air; On each corner lodges The massive garages ; The Fords and the Dodges Are there. The hitchin'-post lately Has been altered greatly, An' now it stands stately An red; The hitchin'-rein 's holler For liquid to f oiler, Where many a dollar Is shed. James Larkin Pearson. Sarn-take my yaller Kitten's ham gravy ! The Literary Dig est has at last reluctantly ad mitted that the Soviet officials in Russia are honest "con trary to common report." Now look out for the L. D. to say a good wrord for the devil. Must have got religion up there in Yankee-doodle. Huh ? Number 10. WANT SOME POETRY? Another brilliant idea has struck me right square across the fat end of my wisdom. In an old trunk here at Cora a house I've got about 17 bushels of jimdandy good poetry that I have hatched out of my orna mental head during the past25 years v This poetry is all wool and a yard wideband guaranteed for a thousand years. Some of the poems are funny enough to tick le a home-sick dog or a setting hen, while other pieces are s sad they would make Charlie Chaplin look like a pall-benrer at the funeral of Mutt and Jeff. I have been trying for years t this poetiy printed some But the magazine editors and publishers say it is so good they are afraid to print it, as it would set a standard that would discourage other poets and cause the whole poetry business to languish like a love-sick butter fly in a bucket of hot molasses. And so I have been wonder ing what would be the result if I should take my collection of poetiy by the back of the neck and drag it through the columns of The Fool-Killer for about 12 months. In other words, I have thought about running the poems in as a regular feature of the paper, devoting a.page or so to that purpose as long as the collection holds out. "? ' . I would have the poems set in book-page width and hold the type. Then at the end of the serial run I would have my whole complete "Poetical Works" in type ready for a book. Does that ring your bell? Write and tell me if you want the poetiy, and send along a club when you write. Do it now. That bunch of diplomatic liars at the Washington talkfest reminds me of a flock of one-legged ducks in a frog-pond. They just paddle around and around in a circle and never get any where. Started out for the port of Disarmament so they said -but here they come right back to Military Alliance right ker- dab where they started. Hire 'em to go after a swan, and they will come back with a dura polecat.
The Fool-Killer (Pores Knob, N.C.)
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Dec. 1, 1921, edition 1
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