At Mrs. Casey's hunger-killing shop
Whither I hie thrice daily for my stew,
I dream I'm Mr. Waldorf as I chew
My prunes or lay my Boston-baked on top.
Growley and sinkers, slum and mutton sop,
India-rubber jelly known as "glue,"
A soup-bone goulash with a spud or two,
Clatter below until I signal "Stop!"

There may be chefs in France or Albany
Can knock a poem from a wedge of pie;
But just give me a check on Mrs. C.,
For rapid-filling ballast, murmurs I.
Kings may prefer some tasty wads of hash,
But they don't feed at fifteen cents per crash!



XVII



Pansy and me for Coney Sunday noon
To see a perfect lady bump the bumps;
We rubbered at the lions with the chumps
And took the Wellman special to the moon.
She asks me, "Dance?" I answers, "Just as soon,"