Judge — January 24, 1920 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“Does It Make You Weary, Broturr, as Ir Pains ano Boriters Mt Weariness By Warr Masox Illustration by AM tired of uplift writers who are preaching all the time. telling us poor erring blighters how to make our lives sublime. For the writers are reclining, each one in his easy chair, and for them the sun is shining, and they have some coin to spare; they don’t wilt their glossy collars packing hod or turning wheel, and they draw a million dollars for a little uplift spiel They don’t milk a bunch of cattle at the breaking of the dawn, or engage in earnest battle with a mower on the lawn, they sit on seats of satin, writing things that fairly shriek, and they dish up bughouse Latin with a dash of dippy Greek And they chide the man who hollers underneath a grievous load, and they draw a million dollars for an essay or an ode, I am tired of all reformers who'd reform at any cost; all the loud and tireless stormers who would make this world a frost. Ever higher, ever higher they are throwing bricks and rocks; and they'd rob me of my brier and my old tobacco box They have pinched the old brown bottle that was hid behind the shed, and the demijohn of wattle, leaving hydrant juice instead; and although my nose is bleaching, I’m a stranger to delight, for they're always preaching, preaching, and they spoil my rest at night. From my couch of plush and ermine I am dragged at daybreak dank, to enjoy an endless sermon from a loud and locoed crank. Though our sins be bay or sorrel they Raten Bartox u ‘ash them white as snow, with their soap that’s labeled * Moral,” preaching always as they go They would censor all our ple: cs, they would edit all our joys, and would load us down with measures framed up by the I am strong for all that’s decent, I stand up for so recent is a bit too rich would spotless boys. all that’s fine; but the righteous wav for mine. I am tired of horse-leech daughters who are alw crying “Give!” And I'd like to swat with swatters all such damsels, as Llive. When the war was raging dourly in the dark and stricken lands, we were asked for kopecks hourly, and we gave with willing hands. Some new “drive h day was started, for some purpose near or far, and we dug up, cheery hearted, like the dead game sports we are. Oh, I think our course was splendid, coughing up to beat our foes; but the war is done and ended, and our strong-box needs repose. We should have a pair of chances to recuperate a while, to improve our circum stances and accumulate a pile But the daughters of the leeches, they are ever at the door, saying, “Go down in your breeches! Dig, and dig, and dig some more! Help to make the world more sunny, boost each drive, whene’er it comes; now we need a lot of money for a Home for Busted Bums. Does it make you weary, brother, as it pains and bothers me? Lam tired of which and Uother, I’m as weary as can be. comicbooks.com