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Show . Help! . r By T. G. Edwin Markham is going to San Francisco to write the story of the disaster In verse. Daily Paper. Oh, listen Edwin, listen, ere you take your pen in hand, Ere connecting with a mileage hook to travel overland, Ere you turn your eyes toward the west, your feet toward "The Mole." Think of some place less afflicted, for the output of ycur soul. For listen, Edwin, listen, long before the Gringo came And ever since, the Native Son has proven to he game. He stood your verses, quake, and flood and Are God knows how, Don't try him on another one, don't make him give up now. Oh, listen, Edwin, listen, the tobacchanalian smoke That wreaths skyward as we read you, forms the letters spelling "joke," But in Frisco if you started in to versify their grief There would he a mighty call for help a plea for more relief. Now listen, Edwin, listen, don't you think they've had enough To contend with down in Frisco without standing -for your stuff? "Them's cruel words Jack Harkaway," oh yes, but they are true So listen, Edwin, listen, to this last appeal to you. The Frisco folks are smiling, in their hearts there is a hope, Which would soon be dashed to pieces on perusal of your dope. ' From Angeles' to Shasta you would get an awful rise If you loosened up your muses under Californian skies. So listen, Edwin, listen, help old man with all your might, By hitching your Pegasus where he will not be in sight. Then listen to the glad acclaim out by the Golden Gate. The shouting of a grateful throng spared from an awful fate. |