They are mine when its bud keeps refusing to bust.
O, Wheel of my weal! I am waiting forlorn,
I am waiting, I say, with a crush on my corn.
In the "Garden of London" where night-lights are spread,
I watch Living Pictures, as old as the dead;
While a Tow-er Gigantic stands gruesome and glum,
By the shadow of Shows that are certain to come.
Will they shoot as I shoot on sixpenny slides?
Will they want as I want rotatory rides?
O, plant of a plant! I would barter my skin