Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, October 1921 · page 42 of 68
Captain Billy's Whiz Bang #25 — page 42: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This poem by Neil McConlogue uses dice as a metaphor for African American evolution and experience. It traces humanity's biological evolution (from prehistoric creatures) through human civilization, culminating in commentary on gambling and race relations. The satire centers on dice games—initially called "Crap," later renamed "African Golf"—as stand-ins for Black Americans. The poem suggests these games/people were manipulated, controlled, and constrained by white society ("the hand that held us fast, / Was sure to hold us a bit too long"). References to "darkies" and "Come little Joe" evoke minstrelsy and racist stereotypes. The final lines suggest progressive change ("improvement the white man made"), though the irony cuts multiple ways—whether celebrating liberation or critiquing incomplete progress remains ambiguous. The poem appears to satirize both racial dynamics and gambling culture in early 20th-century America.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
40 Captain Billy's Whiz Bang Evolution Jazzed a trifle—Apologies to Langdon Smith By Neil McConlogue. When you were part of an elephant's tusk In the Paleozoic time, And I rode round in a walrus mouth 'Mid the piscatorial slime, Or skittered with many a caudal flip Thru the depths of a salmon fen— Our hearts were rife with that dentine life, But—I wasn't with you then. That was before the colored man Invented the game called Crap; Before they cubed and spotted our sides, And tossed us toward Fortune's Lap. But the world turned on in the lathe of time; The hot sands heaved amain; And our faces were polished with emery wheel— Then between us they made a game. At first they called us a "game of dice." We were drab as a dead man's hand: We lolled at ease 'neath the dripping trees, Or trailed thru the mud and sand. Sextette-sided, with corners round, Writing a language dumb; While fingers snapped and cash exchanged On bets that we wouldn't "come." Later they labeled us "African Golf." And they gave us a spin once more. Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold Of the Terra Firma shore. The aeons came, and the aeons fled, But the hand that held us fast, Was sure to hold us a bit too long, We tried hard, but—couldn't "pass." Then light and swift thru the jungle trees Swung the white men in their flights; And they heard the darkies plead "Come little Joe"! In the hush of policeless nights. And, Oh! What improvement the white man made! For us there were no bounds! We were riven away by a newer day, And no longer rolled on the ground. Thus point by point, and "pass" by "pass," Onward thru cycles strange, We "sevened," "elevened," "nined," and "fived,"