IN my bedroom, in my boudoir, There's a box I ope no more; It is packed with all my treasures From the ten cent store. Saturday, a longing seizes— Grips me so I scarce can speak, And I ask for my allowance, Mostly thirty cents a week. Then I call on Margie Lynam, And we hasten from the door; And we go inspecting counters In the ten cent store. We get flushed most every visit When we lay our money down; There are no expert advisors— Mr. Woolworth's out of town. Homeward, purchases we carry, And examine them with care; Then we pile them in the play-box, And we always leave them there. Riches never will be ours, We have said it o'er and o'er, Till they make things all "One Dollar" In the ten cent store. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GHOST OF DEACON BROWN by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 11 by EZRA POUND THE ALTAR by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON TO ONE IN BEDLAM by ERNEST CHRISTOPHER DOWSON SAMSON AGONISTES by JOHN MILTON A JEWISH FAMILY; IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |