Dear pals, when my “hitch” is completed, Back to Frisco I’ll journey again; Where my chances are worth a few dollars-- All the way from a thousand to ten. Once again I will try to live honest; Though I go to some far distant land, And bid adios to dear Frisco And the girl with the Blue Velvet Band. * * * * * The Little Red God Here’s a little red song to the god of guts, Who dwells in palaces, brothels, huts; The little Red God with the craw of grit; The god who never learned how to quit; He is neither a fool with a frozen smile, Or a sad old toad in a cask of bile; He can dance with a shoe-nail in his heel And never a sign of his pain reveal; He can hold a mob with an empty gun And turn a tragedy into fun; Kill a man in a flash, a breath, Or snatch a friend from the claws of death; Swallow the pill of assured defeat And plan attack in his slow retreat; Spin the wheel till the numbers dance, And bite his thumb at the god of Chance; Drink straight water with whisky-soaks, Or call for liquor with temperance folks; Tearless stand at the graven stone, Yet weep in the silence of night, alone; Worship a sweet, white virgin’s glove, Or teach a courtesan how to love; Dare the dullness of fireside bliss, Or stake his soul for a wanton’s kiss; Blind his soul to a woman’s eyes When she says she loves and he knows she lies; Shovel dung in the city mart To earn a crust for his chosen art; Build where the builders all have failed, And sail the seas that no man has sailed; Run a tunnel or dam a stream, Or damn the men who financed the dream; Tell a pal what his work is worth, Though he lost his last best friend on earth; Lend the critical monkey-elf A razor--hoping he’ll kill himself; Wear the garments he likes to wear, Never dreaming that people stare; Go to church if his conscience wills, Or find his own--in the far, blue hills. He is kind and gentle, or harsh and gruff; He is tender as love--or he’s rawhide tough; A rough-necked rider in spurs and chaps, Or well-groomed son of the town--perhaps; And this is the little Red God I sing, Who cares not a wallop for anything That walks or gallops, that crawls or struts, No matter how clothed--if it hasn’t guts. * * * * * Me for the Cave Man By Charles C. Walts. I want a Cave-man rugged and tough To bite my neck and treat me rough. To hold me whether I screech or bluff; Me for the Cave-man stuff! I want a Cave-man who can pick me up, Slam me around like an ornery pup, Out of his hand I would eat and sup-- Me for the Cave-man stuff! I want a Cave-man when I’ve the blues To take me and shake me out of my shoes, To swear by note in lurid hues-- Me for the Cave-man stuff.