Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, June 1921 · page 40 of 67
Captain Billy's Whiz Bang #21 — page 40: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page features a prison poem attributed to an Alcatraz inmate, presenting the military prison as brutal and dehumanizing. The author emphasizes Alcatraz Island's notorious reputation—comparing it to the Philippine penal facility Bilibid as a feared punishment destination for soldiers. The poem expresses despair about harsh conditions: metal bunks, lost rights, beatings, and psychological deterioration. It appeals for sympathy toward prisoners, arguing that "good" and "bad" inmates are fundamentally equal and worthy of compassion. The closing couplet appears cynical wordplay—possibly mocking religious judgment or suggesting moral ambiguity about one's life and deeds. As a *Whiz Bang* piece, this represents the magazine's interest in satirizing military institutions and conditions while giving voice to enlisted men's grievances. The publication targeted soldier audiences with irreverent humor and social criticism regarding military life.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Captain Billy's Whiz Bang 39 The Island By the Sea The following lines were written by a soldier of the United States army while under restriction and con- finement as a general prisoner at Alcatraz Island, California. There has been a dread about this mili- tary citadel which is only equalled in the regular army by the Philippine prison of Bilibid. Both are looked on as dark hell-hole dungeons for the regular soldier. By An Alcatraz Prisoner Only a short ride from 'Frisco, On a rock resting out in the sea; A dungeon for “soldier convicts—” The home of the U. S. D. B. There we lay on our bed of hard metal, And think of our life among men, Ever wishing our life was far distant, Or could be lived over again. The death-colored chambers of madness, Where all rights are evermore gone; Oh, is there no chance for freedom, Will we never again see the dawn? To be beaten and thrown in a dungeon, Where the eyes of mankind are blind; To be left for dead in this hell-hole of dread, Eternally losing your mind. So, hear the cries from the “big-house,” From the souls who go down in the strife, Where souls are evermore striving And thrown by the wayside of life. Oh, list to the cry from the inmates; Assist in this hour that is blue, For the ones who are good and the ones who are bad Are as good or as bad as you. * * * I was born in the spring, I died in the fall, But I won't tell St. Peter, I lived in St. Paul.