| Old Rockebilt has lots of dough
And wants for nothing here below; He has a mansion rich and rare, With walnut floor and marble stair, An uptown office, grand and gay, In which he spends an hour a day. And while I never saw him do What looks like work to me and you, Yet strange to say, within his breast There dwells the strong desire for rest. Whene'er the summer comes apace, He hikes to hunt a cooler place; From June the first till early fall He trots around this earthly ball And visits cities o'er and o'er He's seen a dozen times before. He spends a week in Santa Fe, Then takes a swim in Baffin Bay, And straightway flits across the foam, Some twenty thousand miles from home, To gaze upon the same old Alps Or view a lot of martyr scalps, Stacked in a musty catacomb Upon the site of ancient Rome. When Rockebilt gets home once more The autumn days are almost o'er And he must seek a warmer clime, Before the rigid winter time Comes on to chase the goose flesh out And bring again a twinge of gout. He sends a call by telephone To somewhere in the torrid zone And hires a suite of forty rooms Where nature wears eternal blooms; Then up he gets and off he goes To where it never sleets or snows. And so it goes, year after year. He wont stay there he can't stay here; He never seems to think it best To take a rest from hunting rest. I can't afford to gad around Through Mozambique and Puget Sound; I have not that amount of cash To warrant me in such a dash. Beside I think the man who stays Upon the job through trying days Has lots more pleasure when by chance He gets to don his Sunday pants And pack his duds into a grip To start off on his humble trip. I go down where I used to stay, A score of miles. or so away, Which seems to me is better far Than traipsing off to Zanzibar. Then all the folks I used to know Walk up and shake and say hello And call me by my forward name And say I'm looking just the same. I find that country grub a treat For folks at home have lots to eat; I join the kids and play at catch, I hunt the watermelon patch, Or hang around the cider mill With cup to catch the nut-brown rill. __Albert Stroud. |
Verdigris Valley Verse
Albert Stroud
(Coffeyville, Kansas: The Journal Press. 1917)
Pages 110-111
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