Nothing But An Ad

Did you ever scan a paper

     Underneath the evening lamp;

Read about a thrilling battle,

     Fairly hear the armies tramp?

Did you clutch the paper tightly,

     Then unloose it, swearing mad;

When you found out at the climax

     It was nothing but an ad?

Ads are not alone in papers,

     Not alone in public hung;

They are lurking in each corner,

     They are on each mortal’s tongue.

Every work of art contains it,

     It is true however sad;

Every man is his own boomer,

     Every move he makes an ad.

Take it with the stirring parson,

     Take it with the man at law;

Take it with the brawny fighter

     Who can break another’s jaw.

All are striving for perfection,

     Yes, the world has got it bad;

Even he who writes a poem

     Fondly hopes ‘twill be an ad.

July 28, ‘96

B. Courier,

  Oct. 17, ‘97