| 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 and hoe; I explore the ground for tubers And I search my patch for goobers, But on close investigation I perceive they did not grow. Vines and stalks are there in plenty, But there is not one in twenty That produced a single thing to eat, the summer was so dry; True, those later inundations Raised a crop of indications, But I find there's nothing to them and I sadly pass them by. 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
Albert Stroud
(Coffeyville, Kansas: The Journal Press. 1917)
Pages 30-31
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