Songs From The Yard: Sing Sing’s Lost Poet

PrintPrintEmailEmail to all who’re tired of hash! I trust, against next season, youll want none of this trash— When you regain your freedom May you again ne’er roam Then hang your old slate stockings up For Santa Claus has come. Hash Song I’ll sing an interesting theme of hash so good and old Oh! ’tis the stuff to make you dream if bolted down when cold. Chorus: Our hash is ever cold, our hash is ever cold, Oh! how I hate to take a plate of hash when it is cold. Now if this food we analyze and take it all apart— I’m sure you ’ll open wide your eyes and at the “mistery” start. Old pants, old stockings and old shirts and various other suits— Bad beef and “taters” and hoopskirts also old shoes and boots. Some very pretty things I’ve found in a royal plate of hash— All things above and underground, excepting good “hard cash.” But still I like to take a plate of hash when good and warm— ’Tis relished by the Small and Great; in it there is no harm. Ye Scratcher! As polite as a Frenchman, As cute as a fox Is “Ye Scratcher,” and yet He gets in a tight box. Then murmurs: “It’s tough, Yes, it’s regular fits;” But it’s just what befalls those Who live by their wits. Of late I’ve been running This thing very clever, And thought that they’d collar me Never oh! never— But alas! for the future It’s little I’ll reck, For I’ll surely catch tandem For raising that check. Then the Judge “My dear boy, I decidedly think That you have been slinging Of late too much ink. And for your illegitimate Use of the pen, Up the beautiful Hudson I’ll send you for Ten.” The Convict Dead Down to the placid Hudson’s tide Where slopes a cheerless hill, Wherein are buried, side by side, Hearts that are cold and still— Their earthly pilgrimage is o’er, Their lease of life has sped They sleep, alas!