Black Beetles in Amber

Mo' Bible. Bime by pleach—hell-talkee. Tell
'Bout Abel—mebby so he live too cheap.
He mebby all time dig on lanch—no dlink,
No splee—no go plocession fo' make vote—
No sendee money out of clunty fo'
To helpee Ilishmen. Cain killum. Josh
He catchee at it, an' he belly mad—
Say: 'Allee Melicans boycottee Cain.'
Not muchee—you no pleachee that:
You all same lie.

MOUNTWAVE:

This cuss must be expelled. (Draws pistol.)
MOUNTWAVE, HARDHAND, SATAN (singing):
    For Chinese expulsion, hurrah!
      To mobbing and murder, all hail!
    Away with your justice and law—
      We'll make every pagan turn tail.

CHORUS OF FOREIGN VOTERS:

    Bedad! oof dot tief o'ze vorld—
    Zat Ivan Tchanay vos got hurled
    In Hella, da debil he say:
   'Wor be yer return pairmit, hey?'
    Und gry as 'e shaka da boot:
   'Zis haythen haf nevaire been oot!'

HARDHAND:

Too many cooks are working at this broth—
I think, by thunder, t'will be mostly froth!
I'm cussed ef I can sarvy, up to date,
What good this dern fandango does the State.

MOUNTWAVE:

The State's advantage, sir, you may not see,
But think how good it is for me.

SATAN:

And me.
(Curtain.)

ASPIRANTS THREE

DRAMATIS PERSON?.

QUICK:

     DE YOUNG a Brother to Mushrooms

DEAD:

     SWIFT an Heirloom

     ESTEE a Relic

IMMORTALS: THE SPIRIT OF BROKEN HOPES. THE AUTHOR.

MISCELLANEOUS: A TROUPE OF COFFINS. THE MOON. VARIOUS COLORED FIRES.

Scene—The Political Graveyard at Bone Mountain.

DE YOUNG:

This is the spot agreed upon. Here rest
The sainted statesman who upon the field
Of honor have at various times laid down
Their own, and ended, ignominious,
Their lives political. About me, lo!
Their silent headstones, gilded by the moon,
Half-full and near her setting—midnight. Hark!
Through the white mists of this portentous night
(Which throng in moving shapes about my way,
As they were ghosts of candidates I've slain,
To fray their murderer) my open ear,
Spacious to maw the noises of the world,
Engulfs a footstep.
             (Enter Estee from his tomb.)
                    Ah, 'tis he, my foe,
True to appointment; and so here we fight—
Though truly 'twas my firm belief that he
Would send regrets, or I had not been here.

ESTEE: