Tuesday, September 7, 2021


By L. Frank Baum 
and George Scarborough

From the musical comedy The Pipes o' Pan. Originally published in The Musical Fantasies of L. Frank Baum by Alla T. Ford and Dick Martin, 1958.
I've Never Had Enough

MIDAS & SILENUS: (Singing)
Don't talk to me of temperance,
It won't do any good:
For I believe in drinking just
As every boozer should!
The trickle of the liquid
As it leaps into the glass
Is the only sort of music, now,
That's got a bit of class!
It don't make any difference
The kind of booze it is:
If whiskey, wine or brandy,
A foamy stein or phizz;
A cock-tail or a high-ball—
I'll not get in a huff—
I'll drink it down and yell for more:
I've never had enough!

I've never had enough, I've never had enough!
I drink it by the barrel, but I've never had enough!
Get busy, Mister Waiter, bring on the liquid stuff,
Or I will fight
Because tonight
I'm going to get enough!

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 18, 1917.
A Whimsical Holiday in Supposyville

You’d never guess—you’d never know
The feast that happens ’fore Thanksgiving—
Supposies—dear, I sometimes think
Are just the quaintest people living!

The quaintest and the kindest
And the cheerfulest—besides.
Ah—happy is the mortal man
Who in that realm abides.

Well, well—to get back to that feast,
By Royal Proclamation
The King appoints a day of play
For creatures of all station.

“For shall the patient horse who serves
Work on without reward?
And shall no meed of pleasure come
To those who grace our board?”

Thus spoke his Majesty—straight off
A creature holiday’s appointed
Whereby the pigs and lambs and such
May sport themselves in double jointed

Unrestrain-ed joy—and feast
Upon the choicest in the land—
And lie abed till 12 o’clock—
And ’pon my word they understand.

The ax is hidden far away—
And not a pig nor goose—
Nor lamb nor steer is eaten,
For ’tis called the Day of Truce.

Supposies fare on vegetables—
While horse and oxen graze,
And pull the heavy loads themselves
And think how well on other days

The creature folk serve them,
And clearly they point out—
How little enough it is—one day—
For things to turn about!

The lads and lassies through the woods
Drop dainties for each squirrel and bird—
And every doggie has his bone
And has his day—upon my word!

They do things with a thoroughness
And grace—and I declare—
If I were not myself I’d like
To be a bow-wow there!

Copyright © 2021 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.