Page 77 - Poetry-Books

The United States Poetry Company
(Limited)

While walking home one windy winter’s day,—
I walked because each car that ran my way
Held twice the number it was built to hold,
Plus one small red-hot stove to kill the cold,—
A great surprise
Did greet my eyes—
They grew, in fact, to thrice their usual size—
As they perceived afar a swinging sign
Whose gilded letters brilliantly did shine,
And which, in brief, was put up there to show
That who should go
Two flights or so
Up wooden stairs would find the company
Of several gifted wights, by no means slow,
Who dealt in poetry.
Now some folks say that I at times indite
A line or two that William Shakspere might
Have liked to write;
And so it seemed to me
I’d better see
Just what these clever fellows had in view.
This course was due
My family.
This is an age, as you perhaps have heard,
Of corporations, some of them absurd;
They have no souls—at least they don’t reveal
Those that they have, although we often feel
The corporation’s heel,
Or say we do,
Amounting to the same if ‘t isn’t true.
Now corporate ambition, I am told,
Is simply to corral the yellow gold;
And this the bulk of all their business is:
To mind for him the other fellow’s biz,
Spend the receipts for salaries, repairs,
And give what’s left, if any, to the heirs
Of him whose work is done.
They’ll undertake all things beneath the sun.

~ 75 ~