It Ought To Have Gangsters,

In This Life He Laughs Longest Who Laughs Last.

Oh Some Are Fond Of Spanish Wine, And Some Are Fond Of French.

Heaven To Me's A Fair Blue Stretch Of Sky, Earth's Jest A Dusty Road.

On The Long Dusty Ribbon Of The Long City Street, The Pageant Of Life Is Passing Me On Multitudinous Feet, With A Word Here Of The Hills, And A Song There Of The Sea And-the Great Movement Changes-the Pageant Passes Me.

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.