32 THE IRRIO Al ION AGE. 



Fresh butter, fresh eggs and sweet cream, 



Divinely bestowed upon man, 

 Oh, had I a flying machine, 



How soon would I taste you again! 

 My hunger I then might assuage 



With food that was healthy to eat, 

 And not starve at a table d'hote 



Down here on Twentieth street. 



Religion, of treasures untold. 



The Bowery would scarce know the word; 

 All they want here is silver and gold, 



And all that this earth can afford. 

 The sound of the church- going bell, 



The crowds of this place never hear; 

 They would rather go to famed Coney Isle 



Or South Beach by ferry so near. 



Ye sharpers, that made me your sport, 



Let me go from this horrible shore; 

 Give me money to buy a transport, 



From a place I shall visit no more. 

 Friends said they would now and then send 



A bill or a check after me; 

 My last bill I was coaxed up to lend, 



And a check I am never to see. 



How swiftly the automobile spins! 



To rival the speed it attains 

 The swift little errand boy runs, 



And the hospital ambulance strains. 

 When I think of my own native land, 



With its feather beds not stuffed with hair 

 And its great herds of cattle not canned, 



In a moment I seem to be there. 



But the cable-cars gone to her nest, 



The policeman's lain down in his lair; 

 Even here is a season of rest, 



And I to my lodgings repair. 

 There is mercy in every place, 



And mercy (encouraging thought) 

 Gives even the city a grace 



And reconciles me to New York. 



