The White Trader In
p. 11 · Read in the full issue
The Pacific.
By “Kaniatty.”
His house is like a bird cage stuck on stilts; His store, a tin-roofed shanty by the sea.
His trade is with the nigger Who is usually a bigger And a better thief than he can hope to be!
His food is sweet potatoes, yams and rice.
His meat and fish come packed in gaudy tins, But although their labels boast They are boiled or corned or roast, But you can bet the taste of solder always wins.
His letters, when they come, are mostly bills — Or, if not, then they’re notices to say That “the market price of copra, Henceforth and hereafter, Will be half the price, we formerly did pay.”
The missionaries say that he is bad, That he chases girls and swizzles gin all day.
If he is, he doesn’t preach, Nor does he try to teach The niggers how to loaf their lives away.
The magistrates! They say that he is vile — A blot! An ulcer! and a leper in the land.
For that always is their way When people will not pay The homage which these Lords of Earth demand.
It would seem he hasn’t got a single friend, Save the writer of this muddle-headed song; But, to him, he seems a man, So he’ll praise him while he can Though he fears the end will come about ere long.
For he’s passing with the elephant and whale, To the realms where only fiction-writers reign.
While his going I deplore, Yet, aloft, on Heaven’s shore I hope to find his trading site again.
Samarai, 1933.