Though in the ice-box, fresh and newly laid,
The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep,
No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid:
We cannot cook again till coal is cheap.
Can Morris-chair or papier-mâché bust
Revivify the failing pressure-gage?
Chop up the grand piano if you must,
And burn the East Aurora parrot-cage!
Full many a can of purest kerosene
The dark unfathomed tanks of Standard Oil
Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean
To bring my morning coffee to a boil.
The village collier (flinty-hearted beast)
Who tried to hold me up in such a pinch
May soon be numbered with the dear deceased:
I give him to the mercy of Judge Lynch.