﻿How It Started–And Ended  
–Conquered— 
 
Each succeeding word 
Was better by a third; 
So good it was inferred; 
No better could be heard: 
 
Ideas clashing––blurred 
And honor wallowed slurred–– 
It all was so absurd, 
Two million muscles stirred. 

Ten thousand airships purred, 
Ten million bullets whirred–– 
And with the dead interred, 
‘Twas thought some fool had erred. 
(In this we all concurred)–– 
Some had their ear lobes shirred 
Some brains were jumbled curd–– 
The crippled-herd averred: 
We needed just a word. 

COUNTING NOSES 
The population of unionism, good, bad and indifferent, all told, is now 2,889,550 in United States of America––that is less than 2½ per cent of the total population.  
(Two and half per cent of the population also have pie with their meals. Strange, isn’t it?) 
The percentage of organized power now equals the alcohol in our beer––when we have beer––it’s called one tenth of one per cent but that means “in name only”; it really is of the same power as unionism. It is useless to holler for 7 per cent beer with 2½ per cent unionism . . . 
At no time was unionism in U. S. worth writing home about. In 1920, it was: 
4,078,000; in 1922, 3,195,635; in 1926, 2,803,063––now 2,889,550. 
Unionism of that pressure breaks out in souplines, hunger marchers and plaintive letters to rich relatives. 
But let us not be discouraged––unionism is optional with the workers. If they do not choose to unite it is their privilege. One thing is certain, they will not follow hysterical or any other leadership wished upon them––not after their experiences of self-government in this country . . . I. W. W. 
In 1928, unionism rose to 2,896,063. 
In 1930, it soared to 2,961,076. 
In both those years soup was a drug on the market . . . 
Now it has dropt down to 2,889,550 and Community Kitchens are doing a land office business; counter jumpers and untouchables are learning logging in Salvation Army wood yards and heartrending communications are despatched to well-to-do relatives. One-half the people are beggars, or hinting strongly (or weakly as the case may be) that “a remittance (even tho a pittance) would find welcome ‘mitt’ance, yours, very respectfully, John Doe, Richard Roe, William Woe”.  
Are the workers going to organize? 
Well, yes; or they’ll be crowded off the map––only lodge members shall be allowed to use their jaws; as things get worse; which they will; lest my war breaks out; which it will shortly after this is printed. That’s that. 
How doth the native scissor-bill 
Declaim and snort and whoop 
For ways and means and schemes that will Improve the mission soup? 
It’s the head, gentlemen. It’s hitched too close to the belly, yeah. 
This year (1932) will experience a swelling of labor organizations––the cue then is to stay put. Wherever there are labor delegates, workers are joining a union. There is that quality about a delegate. It’s the nature of the cuss. Wherever no workers join the union, the delegate is not present or the dump is a resicure resort for tired plutocrats. To say workers will not join a union is a lie, a deliberate defamation of the delegates character and personality and industry. If no new or rebuilt members join on a given spot, an investigation will disclose no delegate set his foot in that vicinity. If your union is not growing fast enough to stave-off soup, increase the number of your delegates if it takes the last man, jack of the consortium (never mind that last word, once upon a time, was being pounded on the chin by a big burly, Hoboken fireman; “Desist,” wails, between blows, “desist”! 
“Vat de hell is ‘desist’; you callin’ me names?” roars the Dutchman. “hissin’ me are you-”) 
Workers did before, do now and will again join the union of their class. It’s an urge inherent in those who must toil that other may celebrate. They take to unionism as readily as a duck takes to water when its tail feathers are ablaze.  
But can you keep the duck in the water? Won’t the duck want to dry its feather and waddle around on the beach? Mebbe. But I don’t think so––that last fire in the duck’s highly ornamental extremity was a severe one. Never again shall its webbed feet touch bottom. 
Editor: Do you remember that poem, it goes something like this: 
Changing Horses in the Middle of the Stream––or Divide ‘em. 
The new things have newer things 
Upon their backs to ride ‘em 
And these again have newer still 
And newer still, dad hide ‘em! 

And the old things themselves 
Use older things to ride on 
And these again use older still 
And older still––’s if tied on. 

And the old things lay by unused 
And new things are idle; 
The older things are but abused 
To reach the newest bridle–– 
The newest then miss––lays its goal 
And straightaway is discarded 
Which indicates our greasy––pole 
Is purty darn well larded.