Sistersville Daily Oil Review

UNCLE SAM'S PARTNERSHIP.
[From the Mountain State Patriot.]

Beloved, thou art a business man, and dost some business well;
But, lo! thou hast a license plan, of which I'm 'shamed to tell.
This plan you say is to regulate, as well as to protect,
I see it only helps create, a very bad effect.

Sam, thou hast millions in employ, to foster your big trade;
And many souls you help destroy, and homes you help degrade.
For every dollar you receive, you pay some twenty out,
For law suits, poor, insane and thieves, saloons have brought about.

Saloons are yours, old Uncle Sam, they're under your control,
You license them, they kill and damn your government and soul;
You share the profits of the crime, in shape of revenue,
And license money every time is Judas money, too.

The murder mill saloons you run, prepare their work for Hell:
An awful bloody work they've done on boys your votes sell,
Yes, Uncle Sam, you run this mill of murder, sin and crime;
Your Bible says, "Thou shalt not kill," you're killing all the time!

One hundred thousands souls a year you send to drunkards graves;
Your voters at the polls, 'tis clear, their hearty sanction give
With license ballots, stained with sin and blood of victims slain,
By your own poison, rum and gin, just for your selfish gain.

One thing you've done, I must give praise, for Cuba's awful plight,
A powerful army you did raise to fight for cause of right;
Poor Cuba's homes you must protect, no matter 'bout the cost,
But rum-cursed homes you must neglect, if every boy is lost.

You also freed the colored man, from slavery's fearful curse,
Yet bondage by your license plan, is infinitely worse;
The colored slave to heaven could go, your drunken slave cannot,
God gives slave makers the same woe, He gives the drunken sot

He who unrighteous laws helps make, or builds a town with blood,
Or 'gives his neighbor drink.' and takes a bribe and says 'tis good.
Defies God's laws so plainly given, You'll reap just what you sow,
If drunkards cannot enter heaven, then where'll rum voters go?

Each license voter is a part of you, great Uncle Sam;
He knows it deep down in his heart that souls he helps to damn.
But, Sam, you are a coward, I see; if you were true and brave
You'd quickly fight for liberty from bondage of a slave.

Monopolies and trusts and pools are grinding down your poor;
The legislators are their tools, your government's a bore;
You are in bondage to a king. your king is Alcohol.
Your queen is Greed the nasty thing has helped to do it all.

In many ways your wisdom lacks your interest to promote;
Your mothers, you make them pay tax, yet will not let them vote.
The ignorant, the thief, the bum, from other countries come,
Can vote Anarchy, hell and rum right in those mothers' homes.

Another thing you've done that's mean for party's sake, 'tis plain
With your destructive rum canteen you're doing worse than Spain
While anxious mothers plead and pray, For God's sake spare my son
Your bar canteen you give full sway, that's worse than Spain done.

Your drunkard business is just awful, the meanest 'neath the sun;
And then for you to make it lawful, the greatest crime you ever done
Your highest court, You've no right; your church said, It's a sin;
The devil said, With me you might, and so you took him in.

Your rum power bosses politics, it scares pulpit and pew;
Your press is sly about some tricks this party boss will do.
Your church's ruling power is gone, because it don't unite,
To drive this rum power from the throne and sink it out of sight.

They have light, they know it well; they've preached it long and loud
They say the drunkard's doom is hell, yet vote to swell the crowd:
To license it is a great sin, your preacher long has said,
The party partnership they're in has killed their influence dead.

Now. Sam. these statements all are true, I dare you prove they're not
Abuse and nicknames will not do, if that's the proof you've got.
The facts are, Sam, you have sold out, the devil's got you sure;
His queens and kings boss you about and rob you of power.

Oh, shame on you, old Uncle Sam; you great big coward you!
Your song of liberty a sham, you know that this is true;
I'd be too brave to be a fool for such a cursed thing:
Pray wash your hands from Satan's rule, then heaven will shout