THE poorhouse, naked, grim, and bare, stands in a valley low; and most
of us are headed there as fast as we can go. The paupers sit behind the
gate, a solemn thing to see, and there all patiently they wait, they
wait for you and me. We come, we come, O sad-eyed wrecks, we’re coming
with a will! We’re all in debt up to our necks, and going deeper still!
We’re buying things we can’t afford, and mock the old-time way of
salting down a little hoard against the rainy day! No more afoot the
poor man roams; in gorgeous car he scoots; we’ve mortgages upon our
homes, our furniture, our boots. We’ve banished all the ancient cares,
we paint the country red, we live like drunken millionaires, and never
look ahead. The paupers, on the poorhouse lawn, are waiting in a group;
they know we’ll all be there anon, to share their cabbage soup; they see
us in our costly garb, and say: “Their course is brief; we see the
harbingers that harb of bankruptcy and grief.” Be patient, paupers, for
a span, ye friendless men and dames! We’re coming, blithely as we can,
to join you in your games!
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