90

Or the mortgage on the farm.

Now you sure must be a poet, And some day will gather fame, But below your simple verses, Your ashamed to sign your name.

If you are an empire builder,

By the running of your car,

You might some day hold an office, With your picture in the Star.

Now my friend you called me Brother, And that sure doth make me glad, But I did not think the verses

That I wrote could make you mad.

Just go on as you are going,

Run your car the year around,

When you’re all through making money, You may then move back to town.

Now I never went to college, As for grammar, not a word, But I think a yellow—hammer, Must be some kind of a bird.

How I wish I had the learning,

I might grow potatoes too.

And could rest my weary muscles, Drive a car as well as you.

Will the autos run next summer? Sure they will, you seem to think,

If they don’t, my good old neighbour, That’s the time you’ll surely blink.

When the time comes let me know it We’ll be neighbours just the same, Do not hide behind some auto, When you’re writing, sign your name.

J. Wellington Thomas