I doffed my lid and ventured to repeat
The breeze had put the weather on the bum.
Then she replied, not seeming sore or vexed,
"It may not be so punk on Sunday next."



XV



The Sinful Rich go whizzing by all day
In wealthy wagons, looking pert and swell;
They get the ride, the Commons get the smell
And full of thought and microbes wend their way.
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