I sit in my cushioned motor, indulging in wise remarks, concerning the
outraged voter crushed down by the money sharks. We burdened and weary
toilers are ground by the iron wheels of soulless, despotic spoilers,
and bruised by the tyrants' heels. They're flaunting their corsair
mottoes while treading upon our toes, and some of us can't have autos
or trotters or things like those. I know of a worthy neighbor who
lives in a humble cot, and after long years of labor he hasn't a single
yacht!
While eating my dinner humble--of porterhouse steak and peas, and honey
from bees that bumble, and maybe imported cheese--I think, with a
bitter feeling, of insolent money kings, who, drunk with their wealth
and reeling, condemn me to eat such things. The pirate and banknote
monger still gloat o'er their golden stacks, while I must appease my
hunger with oysters and canvasbacks. The plutocrat has his chuffer, a
minion of greed and pelf; the poor man must weep and suffer, and drive
his own car himself.
The plutocrat homeward totters with diamonds to load his girls, and
meanwhile my wife and daughters must struggle along with pearls. In
silk, with a trademark Latin, the plutocrat's wife appears, and I can
afford but satin to tog out my dimpled dears. The plute has a splendid
palace, with pictures and Persian rugs; he drinks from a silver chalice
and laughs at the poor men's jugs, and I, in my lowly cottage, that's
shadowed by tree and vine, fill up on mock turtle pottage, with only
three kinds of wine!
It's time for a revolution, to punish the wealthy ones! I'll furnish
the elocution if you'll bring the bombs and guns!