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...SONNET: IN ABSENCE FROM BECCHINA by CECCO ANGIOLIERI DA SIENA THE MAID OF NEIDPATH by WALTER SCOTT OF A FAIR LADY PLAYING WITH A SNAKE by EDMUND WALLER THE ARGONAUTS (ARGONATUICA): MEDEA'S HESITATION by APOLLONIUS RHODIUS ON THE DEATH OF SMET-SMET, THE HIPPOTAMUS-GODDESS by RUPERT BROOKE GRANDSER by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN |