A wind from the south
Has blown it up clear,
Torn the bluest expanse
From which ‘morrows appear.
Only nearer the earth
And dominion of night
Are the sad workers working
Thru to black morning light.
All their ligaments twitching
And brows knitted tight,
To the heirs of good fortune—
A good-God-awful plight.
But their laughter is long
And grins ear to ear,
For when oil stocks plummet
Not a thing shall they fear.
Home to veal and foie gras
And the proles to warm beer,
Sleep and labor for Christmas—
Is there always next year?
Yes and ‘ever for scions
And collars starched white,
On shoulders enslaved
How unclouded the sight.
Impolitic 