Songs From The Yard: Sing Sing’s Lost Poet


The “Empire State” Hotel Air: “Bowery Grenadiers” Far from the City’s “mad’ding crowd” At present we reside, In comfortable quarters By the Hudson’s placid tide, The constant strain from overwork Had made us feel unwell And for a change of air we sought The “Empire State” hotel. Chorus: Oh! the situation’s fine on the Hudson River Line, For comforts sweet it can’t be beat—all table d’hote we dine. The “Hash” is strong and free as the breezes from the sea; It makes us sigh for days gone by when “flush” with cash were we But things have changed—they will somehow— As you’ll allow who’re up here now So unto fate let’s bravely bow At the “Empire State” hotel. We are all of us affected with The very same complaint, The touch it varies all the way From heavy down to faint; ’Tis “other people ’s money” That is ailing those who dwell Within the lime-stone palace called The “Empire State” hotel. Oh! had we all been Christian men And kept the “narrow road,” Turned “lobbyist” or statesmen To avoid the “Penal Code,” Not used our wits nor “jimmies” Or our pens and tongues so well, We had not been at present at The “Empire State” hotel. What tho’ all things in life do stand Still, old Time plods on his way; And that’s a consolation to Those who are here to-day; So mend your morals while you may And thus prepare to swell The crowd who should but do not, Fill the Empire State hotel. Hang Your Prison Stockings Up! A Christmas Song A merry, merry Christmas! I wish you, every one, And a greasy, big fat Turkey for every Mother’s son— May each one have a big box filled up with things from home, Hang your prison stockings up—Santa Claus has come. Chorus: Hang your prison stockings up Stockings up, stockings up— Hang your prison stockings up For Santa Claus has come. A merry, merry Christmas! to each old Con up here, I trust that you’ll be far away when Christmas comes next year. And may a happy pardon arrive down here for some— Hang your prison stockings up—Santa Claus has come. Hang your prison stockings up, Yes, hang them on the wall, Who knows but down your ventilator Santa Claus might crawl And bring perhaps glad tidings from those you love at home— Then hang your prison stockings up—Santa Claus has come. Ah! Comrade, think a moment of your mother dear today, As doubtless she is weeping for her son so far away. And as she hangs the stocking up sad thoughts do mar her joy, She prays to God that Santa Claus might bring her home her boy. A merry, merry Christmas!