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Midnight Musings

  • Author: J.P.C.
  • Editor: B-6591
  • Newspaper: The Umpire volume 2
  • Page Number:
  • Date: 9 17 1913
  • Tags:
  • poetry
  • prison

WITH THE POETS MIDNIGHT MUSINGS Sitting alone in the Gallery, under the hazy light, Filled with my thoughts and musings, I ponder here tonight. 'Tis of the personalities, that I meet every day Within this walled community, where I, perforce, must stay While sitting here alone, then, 'midst this fantastic throng, The Band" begins to play, when, I picture "Joe" in song. I see ‘Ragtime Wop's"' raptures, and oh, it brings to me, A vision clear and vivid of "Da granda old Country." I fail to hear the music, but see a lively throng, With energies at baseball—above I hear "Slick's" song; As sung by him in the catcher's box, with sweetness ne'er but brief, And now, alone, I ponder, could "Doc" behold my grief. I have wandered as a ‘‘Rabbi," in search of "Ireland's Jew." And now my "Fingers" tell me that I've found that "Harp" in you. I've "Stumped" about for sweet content, and "Bobbed" in vain for rest, I know I ne'er could find it "Dick," save on thy "‘tinsmith's chest." Amidst this scene of mirth and tears, I hear the ‘‘Poets'' rave, "Jingles," "Tingles," "Bingles," all, a-shipwrecked'' at my grave. I see "Burnedblack" in mem'ry now, a "‘Curly" "Spider's" form A symbol of my creepiness that day dispels with morn. As I dwell in flights of fancy on this many-sided play, The ‘‘Corsicans'' are uppermost in their Vaudevillian way. "Reading" "Wades" thro' music, too, in "Chee-Chaw" rhythmic scale, Turning gloom to comedy within my mental pale. Confusion halts my musings as the characters flit past— "Beef-trust," "Marty," "Augie, "Joe" "Herman with his last." Neverendingly they go, "Lippy," "Felix," "Wade. "Big Jack" with his "ginger-cake", one that "Tony" made. So, dwelling here in solitude, recounting time and place, With much to chase the quietude—an oft' familiar face, I know that thus in fantasy, unceasing tho' my quest, Countiess ones slip stealthily by in unforgetful rest. My eyes grow dim with sleepiness, amid this "nickname"' train, I know "Old Morpheus" waits for me, to clasp me once again. My thoughts pine for the journey's end, when I too shall be free, And I'll lie down in weariness—these phantoms far from me. -- J. P. C.