XI
My Trolley hikes to Harlem p.d.q.,
And picks up pikers all along the beat.
At six o'clock the aisles are full of feet,
The straps with fingers, and the entire zoo
Boils on the platform with a mad huroo
Reckless as Bronx mosquitoes after meat.
The widow stands, the fat man gets the seat
And Satan smiles like Foxy M. Depew.
And as we hikes along I thinks, thinks I,
"The human race is like the ocean foam,
Roaring and discontented, peevish, fly—"
Say, why in blazes don't they stay to home?
This travel-sickness is a danger which
Keeps hoboes poor and corporations rich.
XII
Today I piped my future Ma-in-law.
She got aboard my Pullman and she scared
Three babies into fits the way she glared.
Rattle my baggage if I ever saw
A cracker-box to equal Mother's jaw,
A hardwood-finish face all nailed and squared.
She ossified the gripman when she stared—
And me? Well, I was overcame with awe.
But, being Pansy's Ma, 't was up to me
To hand her something pit-a-pat and swell,
And so I says, "Hello, Queen Cherokee!
What ho! for Pansy? hope she's feeling well."
And Ma responds, a trifle tart but game,
"She minds her bizness—hope you feel the same."
XIII
I don't think Mother chalked me out to win,
To be the steady of her darling child.
She thinks I am a kick-up, something wild,
And no sweet girl should wear my college pin.
She thinks I'm some too piffly with my chin
And my soft prattle simply gets her riled.
I've lost my keys with her, to put it mild,
I don't belong, because I am not In.
Say how, with such an iceberg on the track,
Can I conduct my car to married bliss?
I hoped that I could whistle Pansy back,
And lo! I got a frostbite off of this!
I'd wrastle Death for Her, I'd fight her Pa,—
But stab me if I'll syrup to her Ma!