I used to boost the P. and P.,
Designed to run from sea to sea,
From Portland, Ore., to Portland, Me.,
But which, as all the maps agree,
Begins somewhere in Minnesota
And peters out in North Dakota.
You gibed because I used to mock
Its streaks of rust and rolling-stock,
Its schedule and its G. P. A.
( Who took your Annual away,)
But lately you seem much inclined
To own a sudden change of mind.
Ah, me,
You're much like other folks, I see.
I much admired the book reviews
Of Quillip of the Daily News.
I laughed to see him put the screws
On some sprig of the late Who's-Whos,
Tear off his verbiage and skin him
To show the little there was in him.
You said the book he wrote himself
Lay stranded on the dealer's shelf
And was n't worthy a critique;
( Just what he said of mine last week ).
Perhaps your reasoning was strong
And you were right and I was wrong.
Heigho!
I'm very much like you, I know.
O'Brien' s zeal ran almost daft
In its antipathy to graft.
He raked the practice fore and aft;
Lord! how his sulphurous breath would waft
“Eternal and infernal tarmint
To ivery grasping, grafting, varmint.”
The worst of these upon the planet,
He said, were those who wanted granite
In public buildings,— “yis, begorry!”
( O'Brien owns a sandstone quarry. )
Of course I'd hate to see it tested,
But would he be less interested
In civic virtue — uninvested?
Oh, dear!
O'Brien' s much like us, I fear.