I personally resent Wilburforce Moss-Dragon, Who, lousy with
lucre and able to droop on the poop of his sloop,
Is always going around looking like a two-thirds decimated
Boy-Scout troop;
Who has more dough in various banks
Than Russia can count tanks,
But who still wears a continually harrassed frown
(Perhaps because his corporation can’t put one more dimestore
in one more town),
Or maybe he goes around looking worried
Because his racing stable isn’ t properly curried,
Or it could be he’s pondering over a bad end,
Which in his case would be conking out and leaving all that
stuff for someone else to spend.
But whatever is hurting him, it seems a shame,
What with all that publicity, that spot-light he’s in, and
all that fame,
He can’t occasionally manage a very small smile
So that we inferior folk would be stimulated to work like
Wilburforce so we, too, could accumulate a pile.
For it only makes sense to me, that if stacks of coin
Won’t make me happy as all-get-out, then the woim should
toin,
And, instead of pitching in and slaving to be unhappily
rich,
Why I’ll relax, take it easy, and be unhappily poor–if it
makes no difference which!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, August 28, 1946
