FOR JOE McCARTHY

We've known a lot of anti-Commie guys,

An' most of 'em knew how to take a punch;

They could face the Kremlin smears, the Lib'ral lies-

But McCarthy was the gamest of the bunch.

Now in that scrap he had with Lattimore,

They counted nine on Joe, but never ten;

He got up bloodied--but he thrives on gore-

An' Owen's never been the the same again

So here's to you, Joe McCarthy, you're a swell

A-mer-i-can;

You're a terror to the traitors, an a first-class

fightin' man;

We gives you your certificate, an' with it all

our thanks

For exposin' of the Commies that have snuck

into our ranks.

He charged the State Department with its crimes,

An' made a lot of Decent People mad:

So the Tribune an' the Nation an' the Times

Kept sockin' him with everything they had.

They said his etiquette was somethin' awful:

It wasn't nice to call a spade a spade,

An' takin' pokes at pansies was unlawful-

Ah, bless him for the enemies he's made!

So keep sluggin', Joe McCarthy, though the

gentry may insist

That the way to get at Commies is to slap 'em

on the wrist.

They say that you go overboard. Perhaps you

do--we've found

You must go overboard at times to reach the

underground

When Joe speaks out, he irritates the highbrows:

They say he hasn't got the proper touch;

And Time and Life and Fortune lift their eyebrows

(An' Pravda doesn't like it overmuch).

The Compass blasts at him with hymns of hate;

The New Republic breaks into a sweat;

But Joe keeps loadin' up an' shootin' straight-

An' wham!--another pinko's in his net!

. . .

He rushes at the Commies when they drive,

An' before they know, he's hackin' at their head:

He's six Kilkenny cats when he's alive

An' he's generally shammin' when he's dead.

He's a daisy, he's a ducky, he's a lamb!

An' he's out to give the Stalinites their hidings-

He's the only thing that doesn't give a damn

For the Achesons, the Bentons an' the Tydings!

So here's to you, Joe McCarthy, you're a swell

A-mer-i-can;

You're a terror to the traitor an' a first-class

fightin' man;

(So they called him fuzzy, Was he? Not for any

dough of mine!)

You big slam bangin' bruiser--for you broke

the Commie line! Morric Ryskind   "Freeman", Sept. 8