An’ then they wer’n’t contented until some one invented
A sort o’ jerky tape-line clock, to help on wasteful ways.
An’ that infernal ticker spends money fur ’em quicker
Than any neighbourhood o’ men in good old bygone days.
The risin’ generation is bent so on creation,
Folks haven’t time to talk or sing or cry or even laugh.
But if you take the notion to want some such emotion,
They’ve got it all on tap fur you, right in the phonograph.
But now a crazy creature has introduced the feature
Of artificial weather, I think we’re nearly through.
For when we once go strainin’ to keep it dry or rainin’
To suit the general public, ’twill bust the world in two,
WAS, IS, AND YET-TO-BE
Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be
Were chatting over a cup of tea.
In tarnished finery smelling of must,
Was talked of people long turned to dust;
Of titles and honours and high estate,
All forgotten or out of date;
Of wonderful feasts in the long ago,
Of pride that perished with nothing to show.
“I loathe the present,” said Was, with a groan;
“I live in pleasures that I have known.”
The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze,
Looked over the head of musty Was,