Now all you girls, this warning, Just take a tip from me: Don’t ever let a sailor Take you sailing o’er the sea. For he’ll kiss you, oh, so sweetly, And say there’s none like you, But when he gets that bit of love He’ll sail across the blue. * * * * * The Hop-head Blues By B. T. Los Angeles _“In this land of dopey dreams, smiling, hoppy-headed scenes, where the Chinamen are smoking all day long; as I lay me down to sleep, hoppy visions o’er me creep, then I hear the snow-birds sing this evening song: Tam, tam, tam the coke and morphine; I can hear my mother’s moan; underneath the starry flag, we must take another drag, and return some day to our beloved home.”_ _Yep, Whiz Bang readers, here are some more selections written by a dope fiend, the first of his series appearing in the January issue. From the standpoint of human interest towards the unfortunate victim of the drug habit, his poems are mighty interesting. Furthermore, they point a strong moral to lay off the “junk.”_—THE EDITOR. Tonight I lie in a filthy room, Reclined on a bamboo bunk, With a bamboo pipe and lighted pot And a deuce-spot smeared with junk. For when I feel downcast and blue, Down to the dreamy Chink I sneak, Where I can “hit the hop” and slumber, Forgetting the weary world a week. Passion’s fire now barely smoulders, Dope has led me far astray, Still I think of the one who left me A year ago on Christmas Day. My love for her has never left me, And I know it never will, Even though I’m a fiend to dope And a slave to the hashish pill. But here I lie in a suey-bow, With another night half spent, With a pipe and a card of poppy mud And a hop cook from the Orient. * * * * * Pangs of Conscience By B. T., Los Angeles For now I’m down and out, And broken is my will, I’d sell my very clothes For a marewanna pill. O, once I was good, But now I’m very bad, For the Chinks took from me Everything I ever had. It’s the white man’s curse, The yellow man’s joy, The angels’ dread And the devil’s toy. No good ever comes, And no good ever will, To anyone who smokes The hashish pill. * * * * * She May Remember This Your hands were made to hold, my dear; Your hair to lure me on; Your eyes were made to sparkle clear; Your face to gaze upon. Your cheeks were made to blush, my dear; Your waxen ears petite Were made to catch the silver strains Of music soft and sweet. Your lips were made to kiss, my dear; Your arms were made to cling; Your voice was made to speak, my dear, Not to sing. * * * * * Still at It