What the Liquor Traffic Demands
By R. A. Hanley
We want six thousand boys a year,
To sacrifice to old King Beer—
Young fellows, full of life and cheer,
All bright and active,
With agile form and manly grace,
Straightforward look and manly face,
The very noblest of the race,
And most attractive. Don't mention wives' or mothers' tears,
Or victims stretched on early biers.
However serious this appears,
We'll try to scout it.
Don't talk of pain or crime or wo.
We've got to have the boys, you know,
Or else the business wouldn't go.
That's all about it. We'll make their lives a living hell,
And all their manly hopes dispel.
We'll ruin homes and friends as well.
We don't deny it.
We don't regard the public health;
For since the business brings us wealth,
By flattery, falsehood, gold, and stealth,
We must stand by it. Now, fathers, have you sons to spare?
We think it only right and fair
That you should gladly yield your share,
If you uphold us.
Though we your home and land enslave,
And dig your boy a drunkard's grave,
If now our cause you try to save,
You needn't scold us.