And you, Good Slaves, who always prowl around
To work for "chuck" and sleep upon the ground,
You cannot ride or eat or work with us;
The reason is WE WANT NO SCABS AROUND,
I heard a "shack" of some Wild Wobblies tell,
Christ, but they're rough; those Harvest Hands are Hell;—
Beware of gangs that sing those rowdy songs . . .
(He's learned his lesson, boys, he'll treat us well.)
There are some "stick-up" mugs with fancy eyes,
And many a Sheriff, too, has been put wise;
The old Town Clown respects us as he should—
Us Stick-Together Boys that organize.
And thou who didst with Poker and with Gin
Infest the Jungles I have slumbered in;
You'll have to find some better way than this
To take away MY little store of Tin.
Once in the Harvest Field at Dusk of Day
A "Scissor" stiff toiled on—the "Scissor" way;
I tapped him on his sweaty shirt and said:
"Ah, gently, Brother, gently pray.
Why work so hard for wheat you'll never taste?
(Next Winter in the Soup-Line you'll be placed.)
So help us make John Farmer come across,
And if he doesn't, Brother, why make haste?
Ah, when his crop is in and you should pass
John Farmer's gate he'd kick you in the pants;
So join us now and wear a Red Book, too,
And win the world for both yourself and class."
39
