Judge — June 26, 1920 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

We Life Is By Waur Ane Queer Crrrters, Oxe ano Att, Wito Kxo Queer Mason Mlustration by Raven Bartox F some onecame to your abode, and turned a lecture loose you'd lead him outdoors, to the road, and tell him to We all agree t the week, whe can speak. And yet we to the lecture go, and pay a hard-carned plunk, to hear some punk windjammer throw a lot of verbal junk We sit there in a gloomy hall, too cold or else too hot, and listen to the windsmith bawl a string of tiresome rot. If he should to your cottage roam, and talk, and talk, and talk, you'd fire him from your humble home, and chase him round a block On every city block you'll find the poor weak human fish, n mind, one fadeless, sweet ambish vamoose. at he’s a bore who chatters by is resolved to hold the floor so no one else who has one lifelong dream He'd like to have a little farm, in some vale far away, where might exercise his arm by pitching fragrant hay. And would have a swarm of bees, a bunch of Dorking swine gather turnips from the trees, and milk the lowing kine. And in his heart of hearts he knows his bright dream is a fake: for if he wrought with spades and hoes, he'd be six feet of ache, He knows his milk cows all would die, his chicke would choke; and ere a scason had gone by, he'd be supre broke. He never knew a city gent (and never will, Iw made a quarter of a cent by keeping plowshares hot And still he dreams his idle dream of that bright blissful day he and when he will grow his own ice-cream, his rhubarb and his hay. an The farmer drives his sorrel mules, the | furrows down, and dreams of when he'll drop his tools and buy a place in town. He sees himself in gorgeous rags, he drives a handsome boat, instead of currying his nags, or hunting fora shote. His shirt is boiled and glossy white, not stained with sweat and id has the blamedest grime; he sees the picture shows at night g time He knows no farmer ever yet found pleasure in the town; y is the one best bet for those who hold it down. He «i dells: that ing bells. ut the summer the cou knows that city life’s a woe to men from dales 3 those who in the cities grow can thrive there, we And still he dreams of city streets, through day. when he should hoe his measly beets, and give the hogs their whey We all denounce this vale of tears as being quite a frost, and all the four r grief exhaust. We often speak of Uother shore, where woe is done away, and on the sh ains of our tears we in ¢ ing golden floor we'll whoop around and play. But when the learned physician comes, and breaks the poignant news that all our works are out of plumb, our number we must lose, then we forget the dole anc! harm of this sad life we live; a rolling upland watered farm, to stay here, we would give. We love this good old mundane ball where life is stale and are and all, who know not where flat we're at. we queer critters, 0 comicbooks.com