| When the Autumn winds are sweeping
And the cold chills come a-creeping
Up my back-bone and my wish-bone and my funny-
bone and all,
Then to me there comes a question,
Just a sort of slight suggestion:
"Where are all your summer wages; what have you
laid up for fall?"
Then I say, "O, beg your pardon,
I have quite a bit of garden."
And I straightway sail toward it with my tater fork
I explore the ground for tubers
And I search my patch for goobers,
But on close investigation I perceive they did not
Vines and stalks are there in plenty,
But there is not one in twenty
That produced a single thing to eat, the summer was
True, those later inundations
Raised a crop of indications,
But I find there's nothing to them and I sadly pass
Then should I be disappointed___
Let my feelings come unjointed?
No, for in my observations I have always found it so.
This big world has many people
Who run all to stalk and sepal,
Bright green leaves and flowery petals, anything to
make a show.
Like my rows of bum potatoes
And my crop of fake tomatoes,
When you make a close inspection, you are filled
with deep disgust.
After calm investigating,
After you have got their rating,
You have found them small potatoes, buried 'neath
the clods and dust.
Verdigris Valley Verse
(Coffeyville, Kansas: The Journal Press. 1917)