JIM KICKSHAW has a touring car, in which he journeys near and far. There's room for seven in the same, and Jim might bring to many a dame who seldom has a chance to ride, pure happiness ten cubits wide. But Jim would rather ride alone, than take some poor old gent or crone. He'd take a banker or some skate who's made a pile in real estate; he'd load his car with damsels fair, and still insist there's room to spare. He'd gladly take a joyous crew, to whom such rides are nothing new. But there are men with spavined limbs, and poor old dames with worn-out glims; and crippled kids who sit and sigh, as gorgeous cars go whizzing by; and mothers, tired until their hearts just yearn for rides in choo-choo carts; and maiden aunts who'd trade their hair for three long breaths of country air. But these will never ride with Jim; they're poor, and don't appeal to him; the men don't wear their whiskers straight, the women's hats are out of date, the kids have seedy pinafores, from rolling round on unwashed floors. There's nothing in it, any way; you haul the poor for half a day, and all you get for it is thanks; they have no assets in the banks. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SUBALTERNS by THOMAS HARDY THE ODYSSEY: THE GARDENS OF ALCINOUS by HOMER SONG OF THE SILENT LAND by JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS-SEEWIS MAY DAY by ADELAIDE A. ANDREWS AN UPPER CHAMBER by FRANCES BANNERMAN GHOST-BEREFT; A SCENE FROM BOGLAND IN WAR-TIME by JANE BARLOW |