Licking The Chops [1930 Slang] Poem by R.K. Cowles

Just copped a fraughty issue earlier in the bright

Need to feel murder

So I air out to jam with the jacks

This early black I jump in port

Passing several yard dogs

And a couple of pounders

Before arriving to the joint

Once I get to this frolic pad

The cats are frisking the whiskers

I'm the hep cat of the group on the doghouse

Last black I have put new strings on it

I have brought my oomph girl along

She's a fine dinner

We had hoover flags a set on seven brights ago

So we had hoover blankets to keep warm every black

Could not collar enough dough

With the skiffle we hosted for the rent

So was evicted

Yet I've been able to save enough lettuce

To get back my zoot suit out of the hock shop

Am togged to the bricks

I have a nickle note in my mouse

Been ages I've had one of them

Usually have less than a simoleon

Do you know how difficult to have ground rations?

Near a free food dump in the Big Apple

Would have a killer-diller if we were inside our own pad

All we could get our mitts on were break-ups

We didn't fog at the right time

I hear a fimiliar voice speak, who is on the ironworks

Which he will break it up

He's a barrelhouse

He tells another

'Stop spoutingand give us some groovy licks

on that gob stick of yours'

When he doesn't have his gob stick in his kisser

He likes to beat up the chops

Then there's this wolf on the squeeze box

We have a shadow on his reeds

There's also another with the tram who's a gasser

On the belly-fiddle another one gives hard spiel

Then there's this pimp who brings his tootsy

He beats the hides

He always has a timber in his kisser

While he beats it

He's great jiving with the aligators

We have this sender that is a a scream

who jumps in to sing on occasion

Also a bit of fluff croons

What an out of the world canary she is indeed

This evening she brought along her main on the hitch

When both imbibe too much scrap iron

They ingage in playing the dozen

The crowd to our left

Just befor you get to the johns

Are those three-letter men

At the bar as always is that gator forced

Later he's been a wet smack

He gripes my soul

He has these shaky gams on occasion

His pal use to come out to jam with his squeeze box

He eventually has too much juice

That he begins to rank the music's style

He use to keep company with a bich kitty

Haven't seen neither for three months

Most of the gates would love to

Get their dukes on her maracas

Some of the musicians hinge at it too much

That they would play corny

It went sadder than a map

With their relationship

When she began to imbibe too much sauce

They were finding themselves without any moolah

Not even hay

All of a sudden the jam becomes a clambake

Evntually this babe begins to croon

And we begin to get back in the groove

She's always a hummer while roofing with

One could just moon digging into her glims

Every black this joint is jumping

This black is no reception

Then this rug cutter comes to the dance floor

To lay some iron that was kopasetic

We've only been here a little over a chime

When this chick with a foghorn and cogs on her face

Along with nifty drapes

Had the moxie to louse up this hep boogie woogie

Then comes these two sisters to the main kick

These gabriels' playing are dicty

Although over do it at times

When they are gamming

Their growls are mezz

We stay until brightning

Then head back to my domi

At the apartments

While entering two bombshells exits