Signs For The Serious
By Helen Leah Reed
He has a taste that's superfine who flouts at every subway sign,
He reckons not that some there be, who cannot tell, unless they see
Spelled plain before them on the wall, what things their own they ought to call
For instance, when I come to town, whom you may dub a country clown -
How should I know what things to buy, if not a subway sign were nigh
To show - the pills I ought to take my all-consuming thirst to slake; -
The hair restorer that will soothe my infant son with his first tooth; -
The ruddy catsup that is sure all family jars and ills to cure; -
The dollar watch that daintily we'll serve, wound-up, for early tea; -
The window-screens that will not hide our failings from the country-side; -
What breakfast-food is our true friend, the dime cigars that I should send
My wife to cure her racking cough. The hooks and eyes that won't come off
Ah! hats, and soaps, and castor-oil, and cocoa that we need not boil; -
And well-made suits and patent soup, and phonographs. - But what a dupe
Of every city tradesman I, if all these vendibles I'd try
To purchase by my native wit! Yet what the subway "best" has writ
In flaming words, with weird device - that make I mine, - and pay the price.