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Edgar Guest - The Killing Place
Work rating: Low

We’re hiking along at a two-forty pace
 We `re making life seem like a man-killing race,
With our nerves all on edge and our jaws firmly set
We go rushing along; with our brows lined with sweat
And our cheeks pale and drawn every minute we dash,
And the goal that we `re after is merely more cash.

We `re out for the money, the greenbacks and gold,
We `re all scared to death we`ll be poor when we`re old;
We want the mazuma, and want it right now,
And we spend all our time at the desk and the plow,
We `re working like navvies, refusing to see
The gold of the sun and the green of the tree.

We`ve got in a rut that the dollar sign dug,
And we `re plainly obsessed by the millionaire bug;
We`ve loaded our backs till they bend with the strain
And we lug and we tug at our burdens in vain;
With never a minute for laughter and fun,
Or the green of the tree and the gold of the sun.

A few of us land in the millionaire class,
But only to find that our gold is all brass;
That the money we`ve got we would gladly give back
For a stomach and liver that weren`t out of whack;
For legs that were supple and eyes that could see
The gold of the sun and the green of the tree.

The trouble with us is we `re working too hard,
We ought to get out with the kids in the yard,
We ought to let slip a few dollars to play
With the friends that we love, and we ought to be gay;
The pace is too fast for our nerves and our health,
We should laugh more and cut out this chase after wealth.
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