---

C J Dennis - Suburbia - A Yearn
Work rating: Low

O man with a Position, prithee tell,
How is`t you mould your sal`ried life so well;
Holding in lofty scorn that lowly mob
Of "Blokes" who earn mere "wages" at a "job".

Knights of Suburbia, whose only care
Is to be counted `mid the "naicest" there,
Teach me how I, some day, may learn to be
Clothed in drab Respectability.

I cannot muster due respect for those
Who wear the very nicest kind of clothes;
Nor does the Upper House sufficiently
Impress the dull, "right-thinking" part o` me.

Fain would I garb my meekness in a coat
Whose very blackness struck a pious note,
And crease my pants, and aye, with tender care,
Arrange becomingly my plebian hair.

A "Something in the City" would I be,
With due respect for men of Propputy.
Or sooth, if such ambition be too rash,
I`d, as a godlike grocer, groce for cash.

Ah, lead me to some suburb grey and calm!
My very soul craves for a potted palm
In my front porch.  Nay, but it were sublime
To stalk the stealthy slug o` summer-time.

Then would I take some proper girl to wife,
And know the joys of a "well-ordered" life,
Beget suburban daughters who would be
Models of drawing-room propriety.

Ah me, that drawing-room! -- my lady`s pride.
With products of Chow-labor side by side.
An upright grand by Bubblestein and Bohrs,
And framed enlargements of our ancestors.

Our arms -- a "what not" rampant on a ground
Of pious drab.  There would we sit around
While Bertha thumped the keys o` balmy eves,
And caterpillars chewed the fuschia leaves.

There would we offer incense, highly toned,
And worship, nightly, FURNITURE enthroned.
There would we -- nay, I may not even hope,
Whose only wash-hand bowl is plugged with soap.

With yellow soap, to caulk a leak obscene --
Whose writing-table once held kerosene.
What does he wot of over-mantels, he
Who keeps tobacco where he should keep tea?

Knight of Suburbia, your daily round,
Treading to morning trains the same old ground,
Is not for me; though I would gladly be
A champion at passing cakes and tea.

O, that the stars had willed it were my fate
To be immoderately moderate;
To sit at eve, `mid fans and photo, frames,
And play at sundry senseless parlor games;

Then, having bathed my soul in revelry,
Put out the cat, and turned the front door key,
Away to rest, by one dim taper`s gleam,
To court the vague, unnecessary dream.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.