The Hair-Tonic Bottle

HOW dear to my heart is the old village drugstore,

  When tired and thirsty it comes to my view.

The wide-spreading sign that asks you to "Try it,"

  Vim, Vaseline, Vermifuge, Hop Bitters, too.

The rusty old stove and the cuspidor by it,

  That little back room. Oh! you've been there yourself,

And ofttimes have gone for the doctor's prescription,

  But tackled the bottle that stood on the shelf.

     The friendly old bottle,

     The plain-labeled bottle,

The "Hair-Tonic" bottle that stood on the shelf.

How oft have I seized it with hands that were glowing,

  And guzzled awhile ere I set off for home;

I owned the whole earth all that night, but next morning

  My head felt as big as the Capitol's dome.

And then how I hurried away to receive it,

  The druggist would smile o'er his poisonous pelf,

And laugh as he poured out his unlicensed bitters,

  And filled up the bottle that stood on the shelf.

     The unlicensed bottle,

     The plain-labeled bottle,

That "Hair-Tonic" bottle that stood on the shelf.

Ben King

If I Should Die

  IF I should die to-night

And you should come to my cold corpse and say,

Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay--

  If I should die to-night,

And you should come in deepest grief and woe--

And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe,"

  I might arise in my large white cravat

  And say, "What's that?"

  If I should die to-night

And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,

Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,

  I say, if I should die to-night

And you should come to me, and there and then

Just even hint 'bout payin' me that ten,

  I might arise the while,

  But I'd drop dead again.

Ben King

The Pessimist

NOTHING to do but work,

  Nothing to eat but food,

Nothing to wear but clothes

  To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air

  Quick as a flash 't is gone;

Nowhere to fall but off,

  Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair,

  Nowhere to sleep but in bed,

Nothing to weep but tears,

  Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs,

  Ah, well, alas! alack!

Nowhere to go but out,

  Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights,

  Nothing to quench but thirst,

Nothing to have but what we've got;

  Thus thro' life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;

  Everything moves that goes.

Nothing at all but common sense

  Can ever withstand these woes.

Ben King