﻿He Had Pride 
By T-BONE SLIM
 
Lo, behold, all ye scoffers, a story— 
A story of life’s underwhirl; 
And mark ye, your blood may turn gory 
As its vital statistics uncurl. 
 
It’s astory of struggle and labor, 
A tale of a nobleman true, 
Who may be your very next neighbor— 
Yes, perhaps— it may be even you. 
 
Just an expert in system and dodging 
A toiler predestined to roam— 
At every new boxcar, and “lodging,” 
There was no one to welcome him home. 
 
With a mind that was lofty with learning 
He drifted along with the tide 
And knew off hut contempt for earning 
The than going wage—he had pride. 
 
How be longed for the joys of tomorrow 
And swore at the woes of today, 
For “his” was an every-day sorrow 
But his future —was sunshine and play. 
 
He had fought where the game went the farthest 
And tried out the greatest of loads; 
At times his pet grief was the harvest 
Then again ‘twas the building of roads. 
 
In the woods, for poor down-trodden workers, 
His voice had repeatedly rung 
And, strangely, the o’erbearing shrinkers 
Were afraid of his sulphuric tongue. 
 
From the heights of a noted mechanic 
He stepped down to lift up his kind— 
Nor felt he slightest of panic 
As he left the smashed ladder behind 
 
He would quote well the great Aristotle, 
The pages of Marx he had turned; 
He had read, too, his shirt and his bottle— 
So, you might say that he was well learned. 
 
When it came to commanding or hating, 
We’d find him quite anxious to serve; 
In fact, he was too ‘commodating 
In all questions of honor or nerve. 
 
Thus it was, when hard-pressed by the masters, 
He shook down the ladies of shame; 
Relieving the girls of their piastres 
And left them financially lame. 
Then the sheik of the sisters of mercy, 
A bull-cook and bottler of souls. 
Took after our fast-heeling Percy 
Just to “plug him up” plumb full of holes. 
 
When the war had subsided (if any) 
Six bullets had punctured his hide— 
His wounds though both grievous and many 
Were apart from hit grit and hit pride. 
 
So he rushed to a doctor and savior 
And thus to the sawbonet he said: 
“I say, on my word and behavior— 
I ran foul of a hailstorm of lead.” 
 
Lo behold, all ye scoffers, a story 
A story of life very bold— 
I warn you your blood may turn gory 
As its vital statistics unfold. 
 
He recovered hit health, in a measure— 
And lovingly gazed at reform, 
And sought once again the pay-treasure 
In industrial serfdom and storm. 
 
But the pay, it was low and unnerving 
The board, it was maggots and swill; 
His bed was a hangout for vermin 
And, shortly, he found himself ill. 
 
Then a hospital beckoned and offered 
To help him to fight the new foe— 
And now, for the first time, he suffered 
On a cot that was whiter than snow. 
 
All the strife of the ages barbaric 
Did parade in the nooks of his mind; 
His words, therefore, grew quite tartaric— 
I’m afraid he forgot to be kind. 
 
His remarks showed a lack of good training 
So sharp was his breathing and trite— 
Indeed his blue words were most maiming; 
Yet, he thought he was safely polite. 
 
Yes, he staggered the 100 lb. nurses 
With many an unpolished cough 
And horrified, with his soft curses, 
To the poorhouse they hustled him off. 
 
I’ll admit that his pride was new fractured, 
And deeply he felt his disgrace— 
It looked like a plot, manufactured; 
An insult “too damn dirty to face.” 
 
Down the railroad he walked, tears agushing— 
And hid in the weeds (as he cried) 
And when the fast mail came arushing 
Then he crawled on the tracks — 
‘Guess he died. 
 
Yes, of course our poor tale has a moral 
(‘Tis vital statistics you scan) 
He came out of the exploiters’ chloral 
And expired a non-union man I 
 
MORAL: 
Oh if he and his kind had united 
Their numbers, ideas and skill— 
His wrongs would, no doubt, have been righted; 
And the trains would have no one to kill. 
 
He’d have followed great ideals and high codes 
And would not have feasted on swill— 
He would not have slept with the microbes 
And, of course, he would not have been ill. 
 
They’d have broken their unholy fetter, 
Not deigning a cross word to spill— 
His pay would have doubled, or better— 
Thereby saving the poor ladies “till.” 
 
Oh if they had but organized strongly, 
Our troubles would be o’er, or nil; 
No power could hop on us wrongly— 
And our dead friend would be with us still.