By Gerald O'Conel Desmond
Oh Sammy Jones was a working ass,
Who faithfully served his boss;
When it came his time from earth to pass
Why, he went to hell of course.
He saw the smoke of Sulphur pit,
He eyed its lights and shades;
He raised his grimy toil-hardened mitt,
And he knocked on the gate of hades
Now Nick was having some fun within
While the imps a plutocrat baited.
He failed to hear the knock thro’ the din.
And Sam fell asleep while he waited.
You might think it queer, to sleep down there,
In sound of Hell’s furnace roar;
It’s well p’raps then, to repeat again
The thing I said before.
That Sammy Jones was a working ass
Of the Proletarian breed
A unit of the wage-slave class
Who had fed the fat Plutes greed.
Who had gone to his work of’t heavy-eyed,
And toiled for a tenth of his worth;
And he had to make up after he died
The sleep he lost on Earth.
Well, Nick at last he opened wide,
And outside took a peep;
The very first thing the old man spied
Was Sammy fast asleep.
His Highness let out an awful roar
He hollered:—Well! Well!! Well!!!
I never knew a shade before
To sleep on the steps of Hell.
He kicked at Sam with his Cloven heel
And Sammy shifted a bit
And muttered: “Let me sleep awhile,”
The whistle ain’t blown yet.
Old Nick he drew away a pace,
He scanned Sam o’er and o’er—
The toil-stained hands and tired face—
He looked at them—and swore.
He closed the gate with little jar,
And said to the imps: “Be still”
“There’s a worn-out wage-slave come from afar,
Let him sleep as long as he will.”
“For he went to his work of’t heavy-eyed,
He toiled for a tenth of his worth;
He had his hell before he died—
He was bound to the Plutes on Earth.”
The Western Clarion, February 26, 1910