﻿“Starvester’s Dream” 
By T-Bone Slim 

(air: Prisoners Song) 

(Sentiments expressed by young man, age 17 Jennings, Kansas July 6, 1930) 

 
“O, I’ll get me a job in a brick yard, 
In the place of a man “gone to wars”— 
I will hasten to Hastings, Nebraska— 
I am tired of pounding on doors! 
 
“And I’ll push there a loaded wheelbarrow— 
There I’ll live, stay and there too I’ll die— 
While the man I replace does the harvest, 
Does the battles of corn, wheat and rye. 
 
“There I’ll stay—’cause a man gone to harvest 
Nevermore can regain his old place— 
And when thousands of harvesters starvest 
I’ll be joyously clogging my face.” 
 
What a dream! What a face! 

Ah, if imagination only would bring high wages! But it won’t. I’ve tried it. And, I’ve got a damned good imagination . . . 
I’ve just sat there on the ant-hill and imagined and imagined. 6, 7, 8, 13 dollars I imagined —finally geting up off the ants’ homestead to find the farmer offering 4 dollars for a full day’s work and board —and what board—enough for me, of course, as I hardly ever eat more than a few pounds of sunkissed-dried beef of a setting. 
No, imagination won’t bring high wages. It’s gonna take piles and piles of organization work; yes, the delegates are gonna be pretty busy. 
But that isn’t all—the delegates are gonna be too busy stamping up the boys to round up the thousands of harvest hands that are fairly aching to take out cards—here’s where the rank and file comes in. The rank and file has done enough poring on that sidewalk and are due right now to step out and offer encouraging words to the downtrodden unorganized and escort them to the delegates with all due and civil honors—not necessarily by the ear; because, didn’t I just now say they are aching to take out cards? 
Hardly a man of them but understands the theory of getting all he can for his day’s labors—a thing that was profound secret to him until this year—and, in so far as unionsism will bring him more than he is able to get single handed, he is ready and willing to join any and all unions, right now. 
So, just as soon as the rank and file turns a few more times on his heel on that sidewalk and quits posing we can expect to put the delegates on double shift . . . Our rank and file, of which I am one, are fully conscious to necessity of functioning as “guard of honor” to the unorganized men, and I’m not telling them a thing—I’m just reminding them, like saying: “Buddy, here comes your train.” 
Above herewith is a poor little, innocent poem with the cruel title, “Starvester’s Dream” — of course everybody knows I didn’t and wouldn’t invent such a vicious name for a sweet, sentimental song. Nevertheless it is true many unorganized harvesters are starving—I call underconsumption the worst kind of starvation —it is also known that organized men are not starving and can not starve; because co-operation between them forbids and brings them an assortment of good foods, board, that can be best described 4 ft. wide and 10 ft. long—and coffee. 
Ah, if Sammy Domb was only here to view that acreage of “french-toast” we had this morning in Minden, Nebr.— 37 pieces left over after everybody was packed full—umh! and that peach jelly.