His interest leaps to the city line— "The civic weal," he cries, "is mine," And I cheer him on with a loud, "Amen!" But listen a moment, he's shouting again— "No neighbor town is worth a cent— They all are grafters—after rent— 'The coming London,' 'the Western Hub'— But the spokes are short—'aye, there's the rub.'" He tries to boost his little town By knocking other boosters down. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: PENNIWIT, THE ARTIST by EDGAR LEE MASTERS REBECCA'S HYMN, FR. IVANHOE by WALTER SCOTT BIRDS by NESTA HIGGINSON SKRINE THE SORROW OF LOVE (1) by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS OF BENEVOLENCE: AN EPISTLE TO EUMENES by JOHN ARMSTRONG |