Maxy the Firebug says that Mammon's sway
Is stringing Virtue to a fare-ye-well,
But wait, he says, till Labor with a yell
Soaks Mam a crack forninst the vertebray.
The Rich, says Max, are simply dips and yeggs
That lift the headlight beads from yaps like us;
They pinch your pie, sew up our ham and eggs
And leave us minus all that they are plus.
The world, says Max, belongs to me and Bill
And Mrs. Casey - whoa! let's roll a pill!
XVI
At Mrs. Casey's hunger-killing shop
Whither I hie thrice daily for my stew,
I dream I'm Mr. Waldorf as I chew
My prunes or lay my Boston-baked on top.
Growley and sinkers, slum and mutton sop,
India-rubber jelly known as "glue,"
A soup-bone goulash with a spud or two,
Clatter below until I signal "Stop!"
There may be chefs in France or Albany
Can knock a poem from a wedge of pie;
But just give me a check on Mrs. C.,
For rapid-filling ballast, murmurs I.
Kings may prefer some tasty wads of hash,
But they don't feed at fifteen cents per crash!
XVII
Pansy and me for Coney Sunday noon
To see a perfect lady bump the bumps;
We rubbered at the lions with the chumps
And took the Wellman special to the moon.
She asks me, "Dance?" I answers, "Just as soon,"
And so we clutched and whirled into the gumps,
But every time I went to stir my stumps
They stuck like gum-drops to a macaroon.
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