THE DELIVERY BOY
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I've noticed that no one has bothered to write
The praise of a poor little shivering mite Like me in a story or leather-bound book To read in the glow of a warm ingle nook; No painter sees art in my wind-blistered cheeks, Or picturesque poses in me ever seeks; I'm nothing unusual, nothing sublime, My gentlest endearment is, “Get here on time.” I'm never too tired to be sent out at night At some one's request for fresh thrills of delight; It may be a dress, or it may be a flower— Whatever it be, it must come on the hour. How seldom the voice at the door tells me “Thanks”! How rarely one heart from the great human ranks Inquires of my soul, if it be weak or well, When maybe I'm verging the borders of hell. For no one has thought me a subject for song, Or singled me out from the hustling throng; I'm nothing pathetic, nothing sublime, I'm only worth while when I “get there” on time. |