﻿T-BONE SLIM DISCUSSES TULARE, S. D. 
 
(There are 1000 Tulares in South Dakota). 

I.
‘Bout a granger— pro tern. 
We shall warble— ahem! 
(May the fates will no worker need squirm). 
He is one of our crew— 
And a taxpayer too— 
‘Tis a pleasure to hear him affirm: 
 
CHORUS: 
“I will always be staunch 
To my cobblestone ranch, 
In the wilds of the wind-blistered lea; 
Where I rested my back 
On an old gunny sack, 
As I dreamt of a fortune to be. 
— ‘Tis a Kingdom for me 
Just to gaze on, to see; 
For there’s nothing but hardships to share— 
Down the road that leads back 
To a tar paper shack— 
To the cobblestone ranch at Tulare.” 
 
II. 
He’s as far now from home 
As a Baptist in Rome, 
And he feels he’s been led far astray; 
First, to be daily bossed; 
Then, to be doublecrossed—  
So, he feels he has this much to say: 
 
CHORUS: 
“Not a stand will he take, 
Nor a leg will he shake, 
For improving his lot on the job— 
When the boys go on strike, 
(For the good things of life) 
He is there with his ‘heftiest’ sob: 
 
CHORUS: 
 
IV. 
“Not a livelihood here,  
And it’s privation there. 
Yet he thinks he can ‘make it’ alone; 
— He’s a sort of a cross 
‘Tween a Slave and a Boss; 
Just a sort of a ‘two-legged moan.’ 
 
CHORUS: 
 
V. 
On the farm how he longs 
For the workshops and throngs; 
In the city he “aches” for the soil — 
But, he won’t organize 
For to cop the grand prize 
With his neighbors, his comrades in toil. 
 
LAST CHO: 
He will always be staunch 
To his cobblestone ranch— 
Every rock in his mem’ry is carved; 
Quite forgotten his class, 
As he worships the grass 
And the place where he manfully starved! 
‘Tis a Kingdom for him 
(Don’t believe me, ask Tim) 
Yes, there’s nothing hut cobbles and care 
Down the road that leads back . . . 
To the tar paper shack, 
To the cobblestone ranch, at Tulare. 
 
P. S. 
Oh he thought he was wise 
And he sought to surprise 
The industrial centres of toil. 
— Now the light in his eyes, 
Like the hope in him, dies; 
And it’s “carry me back to the soil.” 
— END — 
An average worker (pro tem or stiddy) imagines that if he loses a “battle for bread” at one place, he will win it at another place. Batles are not won that way. They must be fought “where the battles are.” — While you are picking a suitable “battleground” capitalism is picking your pockets— going through your clothes and forgetting to return them. 
No time like the present; (we have no other). The past isn’t time. The future MAY be— empty! 
There is no place like “THIS” . . . 
No occasion like NOW.