And his hostelry would not be open till Saturday next; and I cursed him.
Now this is not too much to ask—God knows!—that a mortal should want a
Pint of Bordeaux to his dinner, and a small cigarette for a climax;
But these things being denied him, where, then, is your civilization?
O Coney Island! of old I have reviled and blasphemed thee,
For that thou dousest thy glim at an hour that is unmetropolitan;
That thy frequenters’ feet turn townwards ere striketh eleven,
When the returning cars are filled with young men and maidens,
Most of the maidens asleep on the young men’s cindery shoulders—
Yea, but I spake as a fool, insensate, disgruntled, ungrateful: