﻿Eight Bells— 
 
Did I not tell you seamen strong 
That something soon would break off wrong; 
That just as sure as you’re alive 
Your pay would drop to thirty-five, 
 
You did not believe my tearful sobs: 
Requesting you to join the Wobs. 
You placed your faith, quite unto death, 
In good old Andy Furuseth. 
 
I don’t consider myself wise 
To guess you would not organize; 
That you would choose to starve and freeze 
And not stand by your dungarees. 
 
It seems unethical, unwise 
To grab yourself a better prize? 
That action is VERBOTEN, bad 
Except to fight for what you had? 
 
You do not rightly count the cost, 
And strive to reach that which is lost— 
When how much easier the stress 
To hold to that which you posess. 
 
We see the sailor thrice removed 
From points where things can be “improved”; 
He fights not for to find or hold 
Nor tries to add new to the old. 
 
Methinks it is a mortal sin 
To take it thrice thus “on the chin” 
And I for one shall not believe 
His sand has sifted through the sieve. 
 
I seem to see the merry cuss 
Disturbing calm and raising fuss; 
I see his colors, now unfurled: 
“Industrial Workers of the World”. 
Los Angeles has two centers, civic center and industrial center—Vernon is the industrial center (I give this “info” for the benefit of the communists; they’re barking up the wrong eucalyptus—Main St. is only Main St. and Fifth Avenue hashery is no Kremlin.) 
Vernon is governed “For and By Industry”—a new form of concession even so as chamber of commerce lung-power over Red Hynes. Firestone is out of the district and is working on low shift. Did not hear whether or no Chrysler sprained his foot breaking ground for the mil—trillion dollar plant. South Gate has lots of pavements, much sidewalk, wonderful sewers but no oatmeal. Property owners are in a huddle, (conference). “Will they ever see daylight?” No. They will not. They cannot pay $340 monthly outgo on $18 weekly income—and support a family. 
Yonder shines the famed Mt. Lowe 
Glistening like the driven snow. 
(As a poet, editor, I’m the best saw-filer in the country—I dare you to dispute—ye can lay to that). Last night a clerk, 45, and hollow-eyed told me: 
“I’m working here. Last week they sold me out. Twenty-five thousand I dropped. I had that big place just around the corner.” (Electrical appliance and equipment, how do you spell it?) 
“Twenty-five thousand, can you imagine? Then I got this job. I’m only clerking here . . .” 
Will they ever see daylight? 
This man had all the earmarks of honesty AND WHAT GOES WITH IT—but he plainly showed the sears of the wars he went thru before he capitulated—pale, hollow-eyed but still a nature’s nobleman. 
I had bummed him. 
My armor, which has developed with age until it is quite hole-proof, a shell that makes a missles ricky shay like a beheaded rooster whose steering gear has befouled its propeller, was peforated by his man’s siple story until it looked like porous-knit underwear—I could almost see daylight through it. 
My point? “Then I got this job.”— 
Who would have got that job had he not been sold out? 
No. There is no daylight. 
Salvation Army in L. A. suburbs insisted upon working a 72-year old mans on the woodpile—or no flop. The man protested that he is ruptured in two places. That did not impress the “top-sergeant”. The army must have its tithes of wood. 
The man, of course, was unable to perform and had to walk thru the night to Anaheim—I met him there. 
England was unable to ensalve the American people as a whole either by force of arms, money or bribery—what England falled to do is now being done to a part of the people by the Salvation Army, in the name of Jesus Christ. 
“We help the worthy,” is their stall . . . How can they determine who is worthy lest they repudiate the fundamental basis of Christianity. “Judge not, lest you too be judged”—do they guess at it? 
I have an idea “the worthy” are themselves and it’s just a sweet way of saying, “we help ourselves”—and to the full extent of Les Miserables’ sawing power. 
When will the other half of the people get wise to this British-Viking racket—and when will . . . oh, shucks! 

Since Al Smith got defeated I’ve run into more poor people than a little.—Heretofore I thought I had a monopoly on poverty. 

If you don’t complain a little every day you get out of practice—how will you then look if you want to squawk and you’re all rusty . . . Creak? 

Bottom is not yet reached—all the boys have not yet received their wage cuts. (Law of Compensation).—Bottom cannot he reached till no more cuts can be made that IS the bottom—and that is when workers are organized industrially—after that, the next stop is top. Until then . . .? Hm. 
Al Smith’s Derby (Hat) Is Sold for $115 at N. Y. Benefit Show—luckily Al had removed his head before the accident occured. 

Goddam hard to get the businessman to prowl around in a bedsheet, making night hideous, these days. He is too busy. 

I see Leon Trotzki is thrown off the “Red Special” for the second time, “for all time”, and told to stay off—30 others were unloaded, but in Trotzki’s case “it was a matter of mere formality”. He was ditched 3 years ago. 
Pretty formal about such things, ain’t they? 

The editor will bear with me for not immortalizing in verse (or worse) the “bottle of the century” which occurred at Glendale, “Calif. (“Such - - - reporting!”) Press conveniently passed it off to as “a canned heat feud.”— 
I’m not saying yes, no, giddap or whoa—let the interested put up what defense they can for their actions.