CARLO THE GARDENER

De poets dey tinka dey gotta da tree,

Dey gotta da arta, da birda—but me,

I lova da arta, I lova da flower,

(Ah, bella fioretta!) I waita da hour:

I mowa da grass, I rake uppa da leaf—

I brava young Carlo—Maria! fine t'ief!

I waita

Till later.

Da poets go homa, go finda da sup',

I creep by dis tree and I digga her up,

(Da Grackla, da blossom, da tree-a I love,

Per Dio! and da art!) So I giva da shove,

I catcha da birda, I getta da tree,

I taka to Rosa my wife, and den she—

She gotta

In potta!

[!-- H2 anchor --]

Vachel Lindsay

(Bounding on toward the end of the proceedings with a bundle over his shoulder, and making the rest join in at the high spots.)