By L. Frank Baum
Author of The Emerald City of Oz, The Boy Fortune Hunters in the Yucatan, Daughters of Destiny, etc.
From The Uplift of Lucifer, first performance Oct. 23, 1915, originally published 1963.
Scene: An ante-room of Hades
Quartet
IMP OLITE, IMP OSTER, IMP ASHUNT, AND IMP RUDENT:
We’re having a hell of a time, my boys,
We’re having a hell of a time.
We’re all Imps of Satan,
And Hades is waitin’,
To show us its fireworks sublime.
At torments and blisters our fingers we snap;
For hot tongs and pincers we don’t care a rap;
Though we hate a hot clime
We are all feeling prime
And we’re having a hell of a time.
IMP OLITE, THE DEVIL’S FAMILIAR:
When poor devils go to battle,
And the big guns roar and rattle,
They’re having a hell of a time.
When you’re bathing at the beaches
With a half a dozen peaches
You’re having a hell of a time.
When our tailor comes collecting
And the sheriff we’re expecting
And our club checks to an awful figure climb
We don’t lie around and mope
But remember—here’s the dope—
That we’re having a hell of a time.
IMP OLITE, IMP OSTER, IMP ASHUNT, AND IMP RUDENT:
We’re having a hell of a time, my boys,
We’re having a hell of a time.
We’re all Imps of Satan,
And Hades is waitin’,
To show us its fireworks sublime.
At torments and blisters our fingers we snap;
For hot tongs and pincers we don’t care a rap;
Though we hate a hot clime
We are all feeling prime
And we’re having a hell of a time.
Sir Solomon Tremendous Wise to the Rescue
Looked at the swiftly falling snow,
Piled to the step tops, whirling on
In drifted masses down below;
“A little bit’s all right,” said he,
“But stars, ’twould take no wizard
To see that this is bound to be
A good old-fashioned blizzard.”
Supposyville was sound asleep,
And only here and there a light
Shone dimly through the falling snow
To keep the guard against the night;
Sir Solomon himself dozed off,
Then rose and brewed a cup of tea
Glanced out. My stars! My sakes!
Supposyville was swallowed up!
Wiped out completely and as neatly
As if it never had been there;
Buried deep, and fast asleep
Beneath the drifts. He tore his hair;
Bethinking of its scarceness, this
He ceased, and strode about;
“Two weeks or more ’twill be before
They’ll ever get themselves dug out.
“Who’ll feed the horses in the barns,
Or milk the cows?” he fumed;
“Why, folks may starve.” At this thought he
The tearing of his hair resumed;
But finally his agitation
Gave way to frantic concentration;
And ere an hour had passed a plan
Had come to this inventive man.
A burning glass of wondrous strength
He pointed toward the town;
And with a ray, whose name and fame
If known would bring to him a crown,
He set to work, my dears and ducks;
Next minute, underneath the snow,
Supposyville awakened, rubbed
Its eyes; no wonder, though.
For from its turrets, roofs and spires,
A very flood came pouring;
The houses shook, and down the street
Great torrents went a-roaring;
All lights went out, and in the dark
They shook with apprehension;
And thought of more calamities
Than I’ve the time to mention.
But, pshaw! Daylight revealed
A state of things you’ll hardly credit.
“Unbelievable!” Sir Solomon
Himself it was who said it;
For there stood old Supposyville,
Wet and draggled, it is true,
But all the snow had melted and
Run off, while round it, whew!
Piled mountain high the drifts arose;
A month they took to melt;
I’ll leave to you to guess just how
Relieved the kingdom felt,
And how they cheered Sir Solomon
And sent him many gifts;
For rescuing them thusly
From the blizzard and the drifts.
