Won't you try Wheaties?
They're whole wheat with all of the bran.
Won't you try Wheaties?
For wheat is the best food of man. (Hard Times 73).

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Wave the flag for Hudson High, boys,
Show them how we stand!
Ever shall our team be champions,
Known throughout the land!
Rah Rah Boola Boola Boola.  (Hard Times 73).

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Who's that little chatterbox?
The one with pretty auburn locks?
Who do you see?
It's Little Orphan Annie...

Bright eyes, cheeks a rosy glow,
There's a store of healthiness handy.
Mite-size, always on the go.
And if you want to know--"Arf!" says Sandy...(Hard Times 69).

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Alligator:  a devotee of swing.
Canary:  a girl vocalist.
Cats:  musicians in a wing orchestra.
Corn, mickey mouse, schmaltz, sweet: uninspired music good only for sedate dancing.
Cuttin' a run:  dancing to swing music.
Disc or platter:  a recording.
Eighty-eight or mothbox:  a piano.
Hepcat:  a very knowledgeable swing fan.
Hide or Skins:  drums, played by a skinbeater
Ickie:  a person who does not understand swing.
In the groove:  carried away by swing
Jam session:  informal gathering at which swing musicians play for their own pleasure.
Jitterbug:  a dancer responding to swing music.
Kicking out:  being very free, improvising.
Knocked out:  to be so engrossed as to blot out all else; a superlative of sent, which means to be aroused by the music.
Licorice stick:  a clarinet.
Long hair:  in general, an unaware person; musically, one who prefers symphonic music.
One-nighter:  a one-night engagement, often w/ low, or coffee-and-cake, wages.
Paper man:  a musician who plays by the spots (notes) and is unable to improvise.
Plumbing:  a trumpet, played by a liver-lips.
Scat singer:  a vocalist who substitutes nonsense syllables for words.
Swing:  unrestrained but melodic big-band jazz with a strong element of improvisation.

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Stormy Weather (song written in 1933 by Ted Koehler, music by Harold Arlen)

Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky,
Stormy Weather,
Since my man and I ain't together.
Keeps rainin' all the time.

Life is bare, gloom and mis'ry ev'rywhere.
Stormy Weather,
Just can't get my poor self together,
I'm weary all the time, the time,
So weary all the time.

When he went away, the blues walked in and met me,
If he stays away, old rockin' chair will get me.
All I do is pray the Lord above will let me
Walk in the sun once more.

Can't go on, ev'rything I had in gone,
Stormy Weather,
Since my man and I ain't together,
Keeps rainin' all the time.
Keeps rainin' all the time (McElvaine 28).

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Hoover is my shepherd, I am in want,
He maketh me to lie down on park benches,
He leadeth me by still factories,
He restoreth my doubt in the
Republican Party.
He guided me in the path of the
Unemployed for his party's sake,
Yea, though I walk through the alley
    of soup kitchens,
I am hungry.
I do not fear evil, for thou art against me;
Thy Cabinet and they Senate, they do discomfort
    me;
Thou didst prepare a reduction in my wages;
In the presence of my creditors thou anointed
    my income with taxes,
So my expense overruneth my income.
Surely poverty and hard times will follow me
All the days of the Republican administration.
And I shall dwell in a rented house forever.

    - E.J. Sullivan   (McElvaine 28).

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Bread Line

WHAT'S the meaning of this queue,
Tailing down the avenue,
Full of yes that will not meet
The other eyes that throng the street--
The questing eyes, the curious eyes,
Scornful, popping with surprise
To see a living line of men
As long as round the block, and then
As long again?  The statisticians
Estimate that these conditions
Have not reaches their apogee.
All lines and eventually;
Except of course in theory.
This one has an end somewhere.
End in what?- Pause, there.
What's the meaning in these faces
Modern industry displaces,
Emptying the factory
To set the men so tidily
Along the pavement in a row?
Now and then they take a slow
Shuffling step, straight ahead,
As if a dead march said:
"Beware! I'm not dead."
Now and then an unaverted
Eye bespells the disconcerted
Passery-by; a profile now
And then will lift a beaten brow,--
Waiting what?--The Comforter?
The Pentecostal Visitor?
If by fasting visions come,
Why not to a hungry bum?
Idle, shamed, and underfed,
Waiting for his dole of bread,
What if he should find his head
A candle of the Holy Ghost?
A dim and starveling spark, at most,
But yet a spark? It needs but one.
A spark can creep, a spark can run;
Suddenly a spark can wink
And send us down destruction's brink.
It needs but one to make a star,
Or light a Russian samovar.
One to start a funeral pyre,
One to cleanse a world by fire.
What if our bread line should be
The long slow-match of destiny?
What if even now the Holy
Ghost should be advancing slowly
Down the line, a kindling flame,
Kissing foreheads bowed with shame?
Creep, my ember! Blaze, by brand!
The end of all things is at hand.
Idlers in the market place,
Make an end to your disgrace!
Here's a fair day's work for you,--
To build a world all over new.
What if our slow-match have caught
Fire from a burning though?
What if we should be destroyed
By our patient unemployed?
Some of us with much to lose
By conflagration will refuse
To hallow arson in the name
Of Pentecost.  We'd rather blame
The Devil, who can always find
For idle hand or empty mind
Work to do at Devil's hire.
The Devil loves to play with fire.
We'd rather blame him,--ah, but this
May be just our prejudice.

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-  Written by Langston Hughes, a leading figure of the Harlem Renaissance in 1934

The pot was empty,
The cupboard was bare.
I said, Papa,
What's the matter here?
I'm waitin' on Roosevelt, son,
Roosevelt, Roosevelt,
Waitin' on Roosevelt, son.
The rent was due,
And the lights was out.
I said, Tell me, Mama,
What's it all about?
We're waitin' on Roosevelt, son,
Roosevelt, Roosevelt,
Just waitin' on Roosevelt.

Sister got sick
And the doctor wouldn't come
Cuase we couldn't pay him
The proper sum--
A-waitin' on Roosevelt,
Roosevelt, Roosevelt,
A-waitin' on Roosevelt.

Then one day
They put us out o' the house.
Ma and Pa was
Meek as a mouse
Still waitin' on Roosevelt,
Roosevelt, Roosevelt.

But when they felt those
Cold winds blow
And didn't have no
Place to go
Pa said, "im tired
O' waitin' on Roosevelt,
Roosevelt, Roosevelt.
Damn tired o' waitin' on Roosevelt.

I can't git a job
And I can't git no grub
Backbone and navel's
Doin' the belly-rub--
A-waitin' on Roosevelt,
Roosevelt, Roosevelt.

And a lot o' other folks
What's hungry and cold
Done stopped believin'
What they been told
By Roosevelt
Roosevelt, Roosevelt--

Cause the pot's still empty,
And the cupboard's still bare
And you can't build a bungalow
Out o'air--
Mr. Roosevelt, listen!
What's the matter here?

(McElvaine 88-89).

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Grab you coat, and get your hat
Leave your worry on the doorstep
Just direct your feet
To the sunny side of the street--
Can't you hear a pitter-pat?
And that happy tune is your step
Life can be so sweet
On the sunny side of the street,

I used to walk in the shade
With those blues on parade
But I'm not afraid
This Rover crossed over,

If I never have a cent
I'll be rich as Rockefeller
Gold dust at my feet
On the sunny side of the street.

(McElvaine 142)

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ANNOUNCER:  Ladies, here's a story for you about men.

WOMAN: Pardon me, young man.  You can't tell us about men.  They're all alike.

ANNOUNCER:  I know, I know.  That's almost what I was going to say.  In one way men are all alike.  For
instance, when they're very young, they go running to Mother with..

CHILD [crying]:  Mommee….Mommee….I fell down and scratched my knee.

ANNOUNCER:  Then, when they're older, they come to wifey with…

MAN:  Oh, Mary, I got a blister on my hand from that darned hoe.

ANNOUNCER:  Yes, sir.  At all ages, men are alike.  And it's you, the woman of the house, that they come with their troubles.  And you know what to do, because you know that Johnson & Johnson adhesive tape and Johnson & Johnson sterile gauze bandage and absorbent cotton help you care for those little nicks and cuts before they cause real trouble.  So, remember the name Johnson & Johnson, first name in first aid.

--Radio commercial for Johnson & Johnson (McElvaine 104).

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Who are these men tramping the roads
Day after day, packing their loads,
Looking for jobs, asking for chores?
Who are these men knocking on doors?

Who are these men standing in queues,
Waiting for soup, asking for news?

Who are these men sunburnt and worn
Out in the field, burning their cord?

Who are these men dumping our food
Into the sea--all of it good?

Who is this child, starving and pale?
What is the twist?  Where did we fail?

Who are these men walking forlorn?
Who are these men burning their corn?
Who are these men dumping the wheat?
Who is this child--nothing to eat?
Who are these men hunting for jobs?
When will they turn, turning to mobs?
How is this land?

Rich as the plain,
Warm in the sun, sweet with the rain.

What is the twist?
Why is the pain?

(Gregory 103)

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The cars lay on a siding through the night;
The scattered yard lamps winked in green
 and red;
I slept upon bare boards with small
 delight,--
My pillow, my two shoes beneath my head;
As hard as my own conscience was my bed;
I lay and listened to my own blood flow;
Outside, I heard the thunder come and go
And glimpsed the golden squares of
 passing trains,
Or felt the cumbrous freight trains
 rumbling slow;
And yet that life was sweet for all its pains.

Against the tramp the laws are
 always right,
So often in a cell I broke my bread
Where bar on bar went black across
 my sight;
On country road or rockpile ill I sped
Leg-chained to leg like man to
 woman wed,
My wage for daily toil an oath, a blow,
I cursed my days that they were
 ordered so;
I damned my vagrant heart and
 dreaming brains
That thrust me down among the mean
 and low--
And yet that life was sweet for all its pains.

I crept with lice that stayed and stayed
 for spite;
I froze in "jungles" more than can be said;
Dogs tore my clothes, and in a
 woeful plight
At many a back door for my food I pled
Until I wished to God that I was dead….
My shoes broke through and showed
 an outburst toe;
On every side the world was my foe,
Threatening me with jibe and jeer
 and chains,
Hard benches, cells, and woe on
 endless woe--
And yet that life was sweet for all its pains.

Brighter, in fine, than anything I know
Like sunset on a distant sea a-glow
My curious memory alone maintains
The richer worth beneath the
 wretched show
Of vagrant life still sweet for all its pains.

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Dear Mr. Hoover,

Please help me and my friends start an F.B.I. club.  We need guns, bombs and other things to surprise the crooks.  If you don't let us have this club, it would be like having a choice between law and crime, and saying you want crime.

                                                                                                                    Your friends,
                                                                                                            Mickey, Herbie, Jeff, Ken

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Join the good old N.R.A., Boys, and we will
 end this awful strife.
Join it with the spirit that will give the Eagle
 life.
Join it, folks, then push and pull, many millions
 strong,
While we go marching to Prosperity

How the Nation shouted when they heard the
 joyful news!
We're going back to work again, and that
 means bread
and shoes.

Folks begin to smile again.  They are happy and
 at ease,
While we go marching to Prosperity

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C.W.A., look what you done for me:
You brought my good gal back, and lifted
     Depression off-a-me.

I was hungry and broke, because I wasn't drawing
    any pay,
But in stepped President Roosevelt, Lord, with
     his mighty C.W.A.

I don't need no woman now, nor no place to stay,
Because I'm makin' my own living, now with the
 C.W.A.
You didn't even think, woman, some day things
    would come my way,
And especially, baby, in the form of the C.W.A.

So you go your way, I don't want you anymore,
I made a very great change, in Nineteen and
    thirty-Four.

C.W.A., you're the best pal we ever knew,
You're killing old man Depression, and the bread-
     lines too.

--Joe Pulliam (1934)

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