They never bring the mail up in the morning, They never send our papers up at all, They send us bill collectors without warning And leave our old friends waiting in the hall. When we would phone they're on the elevator, When we would ride they're fussing with the phone, Their ignorance is daily growing greater, Their heads are solid ivory and bone. When callers come they say we do not live here Or state that we are out when we are in, And as to any messages you give here, The way they get them twisted is a sin. They're grafters and they're impudent and lazy; To loaf and not to labor is their game, But though they drive the tenants almost crazy I s'pose we'll have to tip 'em just the same. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BARD; A PINDARIC ODE by THOMAS GRAY THE SLAVE MOTHER by FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER A BETTER ANSWER (TO CHLOE JEALOUS) by MATTHEW PRIOR IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 78 by ALFRED TENNYSON LINES WRITTEN IN LADY'S ALBUM OF DIFFERENT-COLOURED PAPER by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 43. ONE CHANCE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) I THINK I KNOW NO FINER THINGS THAN DOGS by HALLY CARRINGTON BRENT |