Strange, is it not, that of the Myriads who
Have Empty Tanks and know not what to do,
Not one will Tell of it when he Returns!
As for Ourselves,—why, we Deny it too.
What! Out of Oily Nothing to invoke
A Powerful Something, born of Fire and Smoke!
An Unremitting Pleasure, if it goes;
An Everlasting Worriment, if broke.
We are no other than a Moving Row
Of Automobile Cranks that come and go.