﻿Get Wise – Organize Industrially 
By T-BONE SLIM 
 
Body is only a barnacle gathered ‘round a soul; a callous ‘round spirit (gas); a scale inside a boiler, etc. So the question arises: What perticular form of barnacle did we descend from? Some say “apes,” others aver “yaps,” and I say—shucks. 
Where did our masters come from? 
They didn’t come. They ain’t here yet. 

Human beings are as alike as a shovel and a water bucket; as alike as the Chicago fire and Niagara Falls ... But what the hell, they already are members of the universe in good standing, full of penp an vinegar. 
Take him out, boys, but don’t break any bones. 

In view of the Russian grain crop of 114,600,000 tons it is believed some will be left over for Germany. Should naturally think so. That’s almost a ton apiece for all godfearing Russians and I do most solemnly declare no Russian can eat 2,000 pounds of grain in one year. 

Since the Workers Alliance went political, it is gone like all flesh—except the IWW. 
It (the Alliance) heard the dulcet tones of the Lorelei and went for a swim. Haven’t heard she has returned. 

We are practically guaranteed 25 more years of short rations, short flannels, and short shrift; and I got to thinking that it might be a good idea for the boys and girls to grab the bull by the horns, join the IWW and get full meals, oversized shirts, and a longer shrift. 
Unless you are in no hurry? 
When history ceases to repeat the past, my lords change the system—but retain the game. 
Therefore, if the past be unequal to satisfy the demands of today, people might be more prosperous if they used the present for a divining rod. 
Theories then might grow less assertive and we might seldom hear: “Justice enters into the discussion of human affairs only where the pressure of necessity is equal,” and that “the powerful exact what they can, and the weak grant what they must.” 
It requires a complete “new society in the shell of the old” and this is best arrived at by joining the Industrial Workers of the World. We cannot expect it from any power other than the latent (unheralded) power of the working class. Sadly we need education on this problem; my lords need it more, for they have been establishing hell upon earth for centuries, and more hell to go. 

Peace may stop the war but not the conniving, for generosity isn’t there and cannot be. 
The “doing away with war” must • be predicated upon the presumption that it must be done outside the magic circle of overlords and their stooges, that only the working class can accomplish it. 
War is futile. Even if the whole world were under one heel, we’d be slaves still. It seems impossible, that is because our slavish nature fails to look at it from the angle of One Big Union of the workers. 
Final ending of war shall be when workers so ordain it. 
The big boys? Never! The very nature of their undertakings makes for war. 
You’ve been waiting sunrise long enough. How about joining the “wobblies” and producing sunrise? Make it jump into the skies like nobody’s business. 

Don’t play percentages for your pie will turn to flour and water, even as your neighbor’s beef stew turns to onion soup. Mashed potatoes shall fill the ice cream cone, and pork tenderloins a lovely memory. 
This is not a forecast; this exists today. What goes into the ice cream cone tomorrow is difficult to decipher and harder to digest, but I would bet the cone will be abolished. In Europe already sugar is measured out in thimblefuls, butter by spoonfuls, and bacon by the square inch. 
But we ain’t in war? 
Of course not. We’re being taken for a ride—a nice horse and buggy-ride. Yes, the same old mare. 

Even here in New York City the more hard bit relics of the capitalist system are disinclined to accept of the tender mercies and charities of professional generosity, and eat and sleep where they can, (censored) in the most ingenious and unsanitary places, filthy burlaps over them. 
Only recently a man five days without eating collapsed and was taken to a hospital where he devoured “a plate piled high” with turkey and trimmings—a lie on the face of it, for a man five days on a fast cannot eat a “plate piled high” and live. And if it was offered him it was premeditated murder. 
Someone is doing some heavy lying and the chances are the plate was piled high with one soda cracker and a slice of tomato, so as to maintain the traditional high level of American generosity. Had he come to me I would have given him the price of my next stimulant, so help me! 

“Indeed, from 1931 to 1934, some 103,000 more persons left this country than came to our shores.”—Barnes, Ph. D. 

Crepes of Wrath or Darpes of Wrath, is it? Imperialism must not get blanket condemnation as such—mebbe they don’t know any better. Even so, their hokum is worthless because their action always winds up in a disarray of unfinished business. A century and a half nullified.