Life, 1923-05-31 · page 27 of 37
Life — May 31, 1923 — page 27: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
**Top Content:** A poem celebrating the discovery of Boccaccio's bones in Italy. The poem references characters from *The Decameron* (Alatiel, Masetto, Fra Alberto, Lisabetta)—tales known for their bawdy, romantic, and morally questionable content. The repeated refrain "There's nothing dry about you but your bones" is a double entendre: Boccaccio's stories are anything *but* dry (they're sensual and entertaining), yet only his bones remain. **Social Context:** The poem pokes fun at how Boccaccio's works were censored or hidden from proper Victorian society—references to Keats' mother and Shakespeare suggest how such "sinful" literature was kept from young people. The joke celebrates Boccaccio's enduring appeal despite moral disapproval. **Bottom Cartoons:** Two unrelated gags—one about a manuscript-peddler hawking "big long" stories (implying low quality), and another about a boy at Sunday School noting a troublemaker was "sent home." These are simple humor pieces typical of Life's satirical format.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
LIFE To Boccaccio (Celebrating a report of the recent discovery of his bones somewhere in Italy.) E never should have known Alatiel Whose sweet misfortunes set our tears aflow; Nor her for whom the song of Philomel Wrought dear disaster and most charming woe; Nor Alibech, the pious, who would go To interrupt the Hermit at his groans, Except you told us, O Boccaccio! There’s nothing dry about you but your bones. That speechless wight, Masetto, labored well Yo till the convent garden, row on row; ‘Twas Fra Alberto in a hurry fell s wings and halo in the ditch below; alabzetto proved him not too slow t a lady all in tears and moans, y, you're not dead, old story wizard! Oh, There’s nothing dry about you but your bones. Ah, it had been a grievous tale to tell lf young Keats’ mother had not let him know The book where weeping Lisabettas dwell; Or Shakespeare’s worried folks had burned it, so He couldn’t watch its sinful, grinful show Dance by him singing in delighted tones. You're smiling yet where Arno’s roses grow— There’s nothing dry about you but your bones, L'Envoi Prince of good fellows, let the sinless throw Their holy bans and all their futile stones. They droop in dust while still you bloom and blow; There’s nothing dry ‘about you but your bones! Carr Liggett. eoeny say sm he y // Rough-Stuff Mike: I got some stories that a friend of mine wrote and a guy told me you'd pay good money for them. Editor: Are they short stories? Rough-Stuff Mike: Hell, no, nothing like that. Big long ones. Moruer: Did you enjoy Sunday School this morn- ing, Willie? Witte: Yes. Benny Rogers was sent home. ey At te “Confound you! Why don’t you stop?” “Now, Mr. Higgs, if it wasn’t for me what exercise would you get?” comicbooks.com