Oh, the Vamp, Vamp, Vamp, Vamp, Vamp, She’s a nectarine, a pippin and a peach; She’s emotional and sexual and highly intellectual And equally effectual in each. She’s a jolly little sport with the boys of every sort, In the college, in the court or in the camp— Though her years may handicap her, Why the flapping of the Flapper Isn’t in it with the vamping of the Vamp, Vamp, Vamp, Of the variable, veritable vamp.
Nothing “highbrow” about that—yet we can picture a crowd of Minneapolis undergraduates sitting beside a big pine tree at our Breezy Point lodge on a moonlight night. We shall let you complete the portrayal. It isn’t poetry, just as Gus says, and it isn’t highbrow like the “Tale of the Shirt” and the “Lily Breasts.” But, it should go ringing down in cabaret history with “Cheer, Cheer, the Gang’s All Here”; “Shall I Get You Now or Must I Hesitate?” and other classics of the post-prohibition age.
That thing you call a head is merely a mole placed on your shoulders to keep your backbone from unraveling.
I was standing outside the Urban meat market in Robbinsdale the other day when a neighbor lady, carrying her baby, walked up to me. “If you’ll hold baby while I buy some meat I’ll treat you to a nice cool drink in the drug store,” she said to me.
I took the kidlets in my arms while mother did her shopping. I stood around for at least five minutes before the kindly lady finally completed her purchases.
“Thank you, Captain Billy,” she said, as she took her baby from me. “I suppose you’re ready for that drink now, aren’t you?”
“No,” I answered. “Really, Mrs. Smith, I’m not the least bit dry today.”
We received a very interesting letter from Deacon Gifford’s son, John, the other day. Giff Junior went out to California to become a movie hero and at present has employment in Hollywood as a pilot in the Universal stables. He piles it here and there as he used to do in his father’s barn. We will give you Giff’s letter as we feel sure you will be interested in any word from our old friend John.
“Dear Captain Billy: I went out to visit a nice girl in Watts, California, twenty minutes’ ride from Los Angeles, tuther night and she had a nice little vurse which she recited to me, which I am sending you to put in the Whiz Bang: