Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, July 1922 · page 31 of 67
Captain Billy's Whiz Bang #35 — page 31: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a tragic ballad about a vagrant railroad worker ("boomer shack") named Jack who dies of thirst and despair after being barred from Mexico—likely during Prohibition or at the U.S.-Mexico border. Jack, heading toward Mexico for beer ("lager flow"), encounters a border line marked "Thou shalt not pass" that prevents him crossing. Tormented by seeing a Pilsener beer sign across the boundary, he dies at the pavement. The satire targets immigration restrictions and arguably Prohibition-era alcohol bans that left working-class transients like Jack suffering. The absurdist riddles below ("blind flea," "pickled tripe") and the ethnic joke about "Olaf, our Swedish plow-hand" are typical *Whiz Bang* humor—crude, anti-immigrant jabs common to 1920s American satire magazines. The piece mocks both border policy and the desperation of migrant laborers.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
30 Captain Billy's Whiz Bang Eastbound Jack, Boomer Shack East-bound Jack was a "boomer shack," And he loved the "jungle" pot; His run went down from Yuma town, Where the desert sands are hot. Now listen here, ye boomers near; Even as you and I; Jack had a thirst, in a land accursed; Ye Gods; but Jack was dry. He was on a freight that was one hour late; Heading for lager flow; While she rambled along, Jack sang this song, "Hurrah for Mexico!" Now cometh, my lad—a verse that is sad; Ah! Mates, 'tis laden with woe, For Eastbound Jack, the boomer shack Was barred from Mexico. From a line drawn tight, both day and night Was a sign that barred his class; And the poor Mutt read, with heart of lead This legend, "Thou shalt not pass." Then the sad "shack" pranced and woefully glanced At the bright lights across the way; They meant, without fear, that Pilsener beer Was the brew on tap that day. With a moan and a pine, at the Pilsener sign; Which poor Jack painfully read, In his throat came a rasp, and a last dying gasp, And he fell to the pavement—dead. * * * If a blind flea walking on stilts crosses Niagara Falls in a day and a half, and it takes an hour and a half for a hard doughnut to sink in a barrel of apple sauce, how many yards of pickled tripe does it take to make a pants for a baby elephant? * * * If Olaf, our Swedish plow-hand, doesn't get a haircut and shave soon, I fear we'll have to purchase a dog license.