Judge — April 28, 1923 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

Ballades of a Dub by ALN. C. Fowler L Wish My Legs Were Built for Knicks Sut wears ‘em, Robinson and Jones— \ But then their shapes can stand the strain, With flesh to overspread such bones \s make my salient, tibial bane Tenuity that can’t attain More plumpness th, nair of sticks Or genuine proportions I wish my legs were built for knicks. I've dieted on beer and scones \nd unctuous fare, I've tried to train My taste for countless ice cream cones So sturdiness shall o'er me reign— ut ev'ry effort is in vain: I'm cause of mirth to all the hicks: Who my poor, shrunken shanks disdain I wish my legs were built for knicks So, full of envious plaints and groans, I drape my limbs in slacks de laine, Concealing what no skill atones If embonpoint is on the wane And calves are sketchy in the main \s spiral, Gothic candlesticks— Good Lord! No wonder I maintain I wish my legs were built for knicks! LEnvot Friend Samson, come to life again lest still I kick against the pricks; My golf is ossified, it’s plain— I wish my legs were built for knicks. q “Don't you think Peter’s coming so steadily all winter meant something, Mother?” Wise Mother—Yes, it meant there was no golf in the winter. tae A weel-known devine says gawf is spiritual. I fear he wad get a different inspiration if he'd play in some foursomes Thae in min’. x # * Th’ difference atween a bootlegger an’ a dishonest Congressman is usually anly in th’ price o’ a bottle. dozen of his favorite balls, took three, although he had thirty dollars with him. And when he was teeing up at the tenth, which is near a small wood, a rough individual with a gun stepped out and took the other twenty-seven. 7 Th’ Divoteer by C.W GAWFER stood beside th’ tee. Gude cloobs he haed, fine claes he wore; But lonely an’ forlorn was he, Tae a’ he was a gawfin’ bore. 7. Meyers Th’ game he played was middlin’ fair, He'd drive a gude ba’ noo an’ then; But ilka ane was verra sair Because th’ rooles he dinna ken. He ne'er doog trenches in th’ war Because he shirked an’ dinna serve; He learned tae dig oop fairwa’s whaur T'was safer an’ required less nerve. His gawfin code was verra brief, His virtues far too few, I 3 Th’ name that brocht him ey grief, Disgrace, was this—a divoteer. Fae Maist vaudeville actors perform anly aroun’ bogey. Vera few are par excellent. Rad The Rhyme of the Golfer by 0. C. A. Child L™ some brave bard who plays the ancient game Tell but one hole of play and use for rhymes, The clubs within the bag, each by its name, Then add golf’s nomenclature to its crimes. The ball is teed, our hero takes his stance; He swings aloft his tried and trusty driver. Stuck for a rhyme? chance And yells, “Bill Smith, I'll play you for a fiver.” The drive, alas, has landed in a rut, A niblick now, applied with skill and vigor Would yield results, rhyme—tut, tut— He'll have to use that good old lofted jigger. A perfect lie, an easy mashie pitch Would put him on, yet rhymes are far to seek That mate with mashie, so there seems a hitch, The cl He sees his only but there’s nothing for it but to 2 the Ah! now, it’s easy, there he’s on the green, The rest will slide as smooth as melted butter. Unlike some players that we all have se He putter. sen, sinks the ball and does it with a It’s really simple, if you care to think, There is no obstacle, we spoke too soon— A one shot hole and quicker than a wink A hole in one! The club, of course, a spoon. comicbooks.com