st, A 97

Spectator, The 73

Spread Out 37

Squealer, The 75

Success 28

There Is, Oh, So Much 101

Vision, The 32

What Are You Doing? 65

What Sort Are You? 87

Whet, The 86

World Runs On, The 49

You Too 18

IMPERTINENT POEMS

[Illustration]

DEAD MEN'S DUST.

You don't buy poetry. (Neither do I.)
Why?
You cannot afford it? Bosh! you spend
_Editions de luxe_ on a thirsty friend.
You can buy any one of the poetry bunch
For the price you pay for a business lunch.
Don't you suppose that a hungry head,
Like an empty stomach, ought to be fed?
Looking into myself, I find this true,
So I hardly can figure it false in you.

And you don't _read_ poetry very much.
(Such
Is my own case also.) "But," you cry,
"I haven't the time." Beloved, you lie.
When a scandal happens in Buffalo,
You ponder the details, con and pro;
If poets were pugilists, couldn't you tell
Which of the poets licked John L.?
If poets were counts, could your wife be fooled
As to which of the poets married a Gould?
And even _my_ books might have some hope
If poetry books were books of dope.

"You're a little bit swift," you say to me,
"See!"
You open your library. There you show
Your "favorite poets," row on row,
Chaucer, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe,
A Homer unread, an uncut Horace,
A wholly forgotten William Morris.
My friend, my friend, can it be you thought
That these were poets whom you had bought?
These are dead men's bones. You bought their mummies
To display your style, like clothing dummies.
But when do they talk to you? Some one said
That these were poets which should be read,
So here they stand. But tell me, pray,
How m