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THE WORLD RUNS ON

 
So many good people find fault with God,
Tho' admitting He's doing the best He can,
But still they consider it somewhat odd
That He doesn't consult them concerning his plan,
But the sun sinks down and the sun climbs back,
And the world runs round and round its track.
 
 
Or they say God doesn't precisely steer
This world in the way they think is best,
And if He would listen to them, He'd veer
A hair to the sou', sou'west by west.
But the world sails on and it never turns back
And the Mariner never makes a tack.
 
 
Or the same folk pray "O, if Thou please,
Dear God, be a little more circumspect;
Thou knowest Thy worm who is on his knees
Would not willingly charge thee with neglect,
But O, if indeed Thou knowest all things,
Why fittest Thou not Thy worm with wings?"
 
 
So many good people are quite inclined
To favor God with their best advices,
And consider they're something more than kind
In helping Him out of critical crises.
But the world runs on, as it ran before,
And eternally shall run evermore.
 
 
So many good people, like you and me,
Are deeply concerned for the sins of others
And conceive it their duty that God should be
Apprised of the lack in erring brothers.
And the myriad sun-stars seed the skies
And look at us out of their calm, clear eyes.
 

PASS

 
Did somebody give you a pat on the back?
Pass it on!
Let somebody else have a taste of the snack,
Pass it on!
If it heightens your courage, or lightens your pack,
If it kisses your soul, with a song in the smack,
Maybe somebody else has been dressing in black;
Pass it on!
God gives you a smile, not to make it a yawn;
Pass it on!
 
 
Did somebody show you a slanderous mess?
Pass it by!
When a brook's flowing by, will you drink at the cess?
Pass it by!
Dame Gossip's a wanton, whatever her dress;
Her sire was a lie and her dam was a guess,
And a poison is in her polluting caress;
Pass it by!
Unless you're a porker, keep out of the sty.
Pass it by!
 
 
Did somebody give you an insolent word?
Pass it up!
'T is the creak of a cricket, the pwit of a bird;
Pass it up!
Shake your fist at the sea! Is its majesty blurred?
Blow your breath at the sky! Is its purity slurred?
But the shallowest puddle, how easily stirred!
Pass it up!
Does the puddle invite you to dip in your cup?
Pass it up!
 

PUBLICITY

 
There's nothing like publicity
To further that lubricity
Which minted cartwheels need
To maximize their speed
In your direction.
True, some hydropathist of stocks,
Or one whose trade is picking locks,
May make objection:
Yet even those gentry always lurk
Where booming first has done its work.
 
 
Observe how oft some foreigner,
About the size of coroner,
Can sell L O R D
(Four letters, as you see,)
For seven numbers,
Because his trade-mark, thus devised,
Is advertised and advertised
Till it encumbers
The mental view, as though 't were some
Bald-headed brand of chewing-gum.
 
 
Study your own psychology!
See how some mere tautology
Of picture, or of print,
Has realized the glint
Of your good money.
How often have persistent views
Of one bare head sold you your shoes!
Which does seem funny;
And yet 'twas head-work, after all,
Which helped the shoe-man make his haul.
 
 
There's some obscure locality
In every man's mentality
Which, I am free to state,
I'd like to penetrate
For my felicity.
For now who gives a second look
When he perceives a POEM by Cooke?
But come publicity!
And then a poem by COOKE were seen
The first thing in the magazine!
 

MOVE!

 
We are on the main line of a crowded track;
We've got to go forward; we can't go back
And run the risk of colliding:
We must make schedule, not now and again,
But always, forever and ever, amen!
Or else switch off on a siding.
If ever we loaf, like a car in the yard,
Doesn't somebody bump us, and bump us hard,
I wonder?
 
 
You've succeeded in building a pretty fair trade,
But can you sit down in the grateful shade
And kill time cutting up capers?
Or must you hustle and scheme and sweat,
Though the shine be fine or the weather be wet,
And keep your page in the papers?
If ever you fail to be pulling the strings,
Aren't some of your rivals around doing things,
I wonder?
 
 
You're a first-class salesman. You know your line;
Your house is good and your goods are fine,
So you fill your book with orders,
But can you get quit of the ball and chain,
Or are you in jail on a railroad train,
With blue-coated men for warders?
If you sent your samples and cut out the trip,
Wouldn't somebody else soon be lugging your grip,
I wonder?
 
 
You are starred on the bills and are chummy with fame;
The man on the corner could tell you your name
At three o'clock in the morning,
But can you depend on the mind of the mob?
Can you tell your press-agent to look for a job,
Or give your manager warning?
Should you lie down to sleep, with your laurels beneath,
Wouldn't somebody else soon be wearing your wreath,
I wonder?
 
 
Oh, I'm willing to work, but I wish I could lag,
Not feeling as if I were "it" for tag,
Or last in follow-my-leader;
There is only one spot where, I haven't a doubt,
Nobody will try to be crowding me out,
And that is under the cedar.
And even in that place, will Gabriel's trump
Come nagging along and be making me jump?
I wonder.
 

GET NEXT

 
Chap. I., verse 1, is where you'll find
The text of what is in my mind
If, haply, you are so inclined.
Chap. I., verse 1 – the primal rule
For saint or sinner, sage or fool,
No matter what his church or school.
Though you may call it slangy solely,
Though you may term it flippant wholly,
Truth still is truth and is not vexed;
I write this rhyme to prove the text —
Get Next.
 
 
Suppose I sought some lonely height
And dipped a stylus in the light
Of welding worlds and sought to write
Upon the highest, deepest blue
My message to Sam Smith and you.
The chances are it would not do.
You would not risk your neck to read
My much too altitudinous screed,
And I, chagrined and half-perplexed,
Had missed you when I missed my text —
Get Next.
 
 
Suppose you have a breakfast food
Which you conceive I should include
Within my lat-and-longitude.
'T is not enough to have the stuff,
But you must post, and praise, and puff,
Until I memo. on my cuff,
Among my most important notes —
Be sure to bring home Oatless Oats.
And then you know that I'm annexed,
Because you followed out the text —
Get Next.
 
 
Get next! get next! and hold it true
There's one you must get nextest to,
And that important one is you.
Be not of those who, uncommuned
With their own skins, have all but swooned
From some imaginary wound,
But strip the rags from off your soul
And find you are not maimed, but whole!
'T is but a flea-bite which has vexed
As soon as you've applied the text —
Get Next.
 

ARE YOU YOU?

 
Are you a trailer, or are you a trolley?
Are you tagged to a leader through wisdom and folly?
Are you Somebody Else, or You?
Do you vote by the symbol and swallow it "straight"?
Do you pray by the book, do you pay by the rate?
Do you tie your cravat by the calendar's date?
Do you follow a cue?
 
 
Are you a writer, or that which is worded?
Are you a shepherd, or one of the herded?
Which are you – a What or a Who?
It sounds well to call yourself "one of the flock,"
But a sheep is a sheep after all. At the block
You're nothing but mutton, or possibly stock.
Would you flavor a stew?
 
 
Are you a being and boss of your soul?
Or are you a mummy to carry a scroll?
Are you Somebody Else, or You?
When you finally pass to the heavenly wicket
Where Peter the Scrutinous stands on his picket,
Are you going to give him a blank for a ticket?
Do you think it will do?
 

THE PRICE

 
In, or under, or over the earth,
What will fill you, and what suffice?
No matter how mean, or much its worth,
It is yours if you pay the price.
Never a thing may a man attain,
But gain pays loss, or loss pays gain.
 
 
Lady of riches, riot and rout,
Fair of flesh and sated of sense,
Nothing in life you need do without
Except the trifle of innocence.
Counterfeit kisses you paid, and got
Just what you paid for – which is what?
 
 
Man of adroitness, place and power,
Trampled above and torn below;
Set in the light of your noonday hour,
Playing a part in the public show;
Fooling the mob that the mob be ruled:
You know which is the greater fooled.
 
 
Artist of pencil, or paint, or pen,
Reed, or string, or the vocal note,
Making the soul to suffer again
And the wild heart clutch the throat;
Ever your fancy has paid in fact;
You rack my soul, as yours was racked.
 

THE BUBBLE-FLIES

 
Let me read a homily
Concerning an anomaly
I view
In you.
Whatever you are striving for,
Whatever you are driving for,
'T is not alone because you crave
To be successful that you slave
To swim upon the topmost wave.
You care less what your station is,
But more what your relation is.
To be a bit above the rest!
To be upon, or of, the crest!
Ah! that is where the trouble lies
Which stirs you little bubble-flies.
 
 
(I sneer these sneers, but just the same
I keep my fingers in the game.)
See! you have eat-and-drinkables
And portables and thinkables
And yet
You fret.
For what? Let's reach the heart of you
And see the funny part of you.
For what? I find the soul and seed
Of it is not your lack or need,
Or even merely vulgar greed.
Gold? You may have a store of it,
But someone else has more of it.
Fame? Pretty things are said of you,
But – some one is ahead of you.
Place? You disprize your easy one
For some one's high and breezy one.
 
 
(I smile these smiles to soothe my soul,
But squint one eye upon the goal.)
 
 
Tell me! what's your capacity
Compared to your voracity?
I guess
'T is less.
And so I strike these attitudes
And tender you these platitudes; —
Not wishing wealth, or spurning it,
Not hoarding it, or burning it
Is equal to the earning it.
Life's race is in the riding it,
Not in the word deciding it.
And after all is said and uttered
The keenest taste is bread-and-buttered.
 
 
(And yet – and yet – my palate aches
For pallid pie and pasty cakes!)