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...BRER RABBIT, YOU'S DE CUTES' OF 'EM ALL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON NIGHT, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOW-WORM by WILLIAM COWPER TO THE NIGHTINGALE by JOHN MILTON |