<h2><SPAN name="page96"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>WAIL OF AN OLD-TIMER</h2>
<p class="poetry">Each new invention doubles our worries
an’ our troubles,<br/>
These scientific fellows are spoilin’ of our
land;<br/>
With motor, wire, an’ cable, now’-days we’re
scarcely able<br/>
To walk or ride in peace o’ mind, an’
’tisn’t safe to stand.</p>
<p class="poetry">It fairly makes me crazy to see how tarnal
lazy<br/>
The risin’ generation grows—an’
science is to blame.<br/>
With telephones for talkin’, an’ messengers for
walkin’,<br/>
Our young men sit an’ loaf an’ smoke,
without a blush o’ shame.</p>
<p class="poetry">An’ then they wer’n’t
contented until some one invented<br/>
A sort o’ jerky tape-line clock, to help on
wasteful ways.<br/>
An’ that infernal ticker spends money fur ’em
quicker<br/>
Than any neighbourhood o’ men in good old
bygone days.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page97"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
97</span>The risin’ generation is bent so on creation,<br/>
Folks haven’t time to talk or sing or cry or
even laugh.<br/>
But if you take the notion to want some such emotion,<br/>
They’ve got it all on tap fur you, right in
the phonograph.</p>
<p class="poetry">But now a crazy creature has introduced the
feature<br/>
Of artificial weather, I think we’re nearly
through.<br/>
For when we once go strainin’ to keep it dry or
rainin’<br/>
To suit the general public, ’twill bust the
world in two,</p>
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