Joey’s Job

In days before the trouble Jo was rated as     a slob.

He chose to sit in hourly expectation of a job.

He'd loop hisself upon a post, for seldom     friends had he,

A gift of patient waitin' his distinctif quality.

He'd linger in a doorway, or he'd loiter on the     grass,

Edgin' modestly aside to let the fleetin'     moments pass.

Jo' begged a bob from mother, but more often     got a clout,

And settled down with cigarettes to smoke the     devil out.

The one consistent member of the Never     Trouble Club,

He put a satin finish on the frontage of the     pub.

His shoulder-blades were pokin' out from     polishin' the pine;

But if a job ran at him Joey's footwork was     divine.

Jo strayed in at the cobbler's door, but, scoffed     at as a fool,

He found the conversation too exhaustin' as     a rule;

Or, canted on the smithy coke, he'd hoist his     feet and yawn,

His boots slid up his shinbones, and his pants     displayin' brawn:

And if the copper chanced along 'twas beauty-     ful to see Joe wear away and made hisself a fadest     memory.

Then came the universal nark.

The Kaiser     let her rip.

They cleared the ring.

The scrap was for the     whole world's championship.

Jo Brown was takin' notice, lurkin' shy be-     neath his hat,

And every day he crept to see the drillin' on     the flat.

He waited, watchin' from the furze the blokes     in butcher's blue,

For the burst of inspiration that would tell him     what to do.

He couldn't lean, he couldn't lie.

He yelled     out in the night.

Jo understood—he'd all these years been     spoilin' for a fight!

Right into things he flung himself.

He     took his kit and gun,

Mooched gladly in the dust, or roasted gaily     in the sun. “Gorstruth,” he said, with shining eyes, “it     means a frightful war, 'N' now I know this is the thing that Heaven     meant me for.” Jo went away a corporal and fought again the     Turk,

And like a duck to water Joey cottoned to the     work.

If anythin' was doin' it would presently come     out That Joseph Brown from Booragool was there     or thereabout.

He got a batch of medals, and a glorious     renown Attached all of a sudden to the name of     Sergeant Brown.

Then people talked of Joey as the dearest     friend they had;

They were chummy with his uncles, or ac-     quainted with his dad.

Joe goes to France, and presently he figure as     the best Two-handed all-in fighter in the armies of the     West,

And men of every age at home and high and     low degree,

We gather now, once went to school with     Sergeant Brown,

V.

C.

Then Hayes and Jo, in Flanders met, and very     proud was Hayes To shake a townsman by the hand, and sing     the hero's praise, “Oh, yes,” says Jo, “I'm doin' well, 'n' yet     I might do more.

If I was in a hurry, mate, to finish up this war I'd lay out every Fritz on earth, but, strike me,     what a yob A man would be to work himself out of a     flamnin' job!” Now Jo's a swell lieutenant, and he's keepin'     up the pace.

Ha “Record” says Lieutenant Brown's an     honor to the place.

The town gets special mention every time he     scores.

We bet If peace don't mess his chances up, he'll be     Field-Marshal yet.

Dad, mother and the uncles Brown and all our     people know That Providence began this war to find a grip     for Jo!