These poems are from Slams of Life by J.P McEvoy illustrated by Frank White; P. F. Volland Company, Chicago, USA; 1919; pp. 100-101, 109.
THE STRANGER
by
J. P. McEvoy
ãWhoâs that stranger Mother, dear?
Look! he knows us, ainât he queer?ä
ãHush my own, donât talk so wild;
Heâs your father, dearest child.ä
ãHeâs my father? no such thing;
Father died away last Spring.ä
ãFather didnât die, you dub,
Father joined a golfing club.
ãBut they closed the club, so he
Has no place to go, you see,
No place left for him to roam,
That is why he is coming home.ä
ãKiss him . . . he wonât bite you, child —
All them golfing guys look wild.ä
THERE AINâT NO CURE FOR GOLF
(Written after reading a news story in which a doctor advocated golf as a cure for the inmates of insane asylums.)
Oh the freaky, foolish filbert canât be bettered
By swatting pesky pellets âround a lot;
Thereâs a cure for any coco,
That is flooey, cracked or loco,
But a cure for guys who golluf there is not,
There is not!
A cure for guys who golluf there is not.
Merry mediocos meticulously messing
Around the haunts of cuckoo conks have got
A squad of pills and bitters
That will cure the goofy critters
But a cure for guys who golluf they have not,
They have not!
A cure for guys who golluf there is not.
Oh, the onion that is batting in the minors,
The medulla oblongata gone to pot,
May be traced to indigestion
And be cured beyond a question
But a cure for guys who golluf there is not
Not! Not!
A cure for guys who golluf there is not.
Thereâs nepenthe for the bean that waxes balmy,
For the coco that is cuckoo they have got,
Simple, bolus and elixir,
That are guaranteed to fix âer,
But a golluf panacea there is not,
There is not!
Oh a golluf panacea there is not.
So I ask you like a brother, Mr. Doctor,
Donât let the filberts mashie, putt or swat,
There are salves enough bâgolly
For the skwerl whoâs off his trolley,
But a cure for guys who golluf there is not,
Alas! no!
A cure for guys who golluf there is not.
Finis