MY MOTOR-CYCLE GIRL AND I
My motor-cycle girl and I are a sport-loving pair;
Too speedy for Sorrow, we race away from dull Care;
We startle Deacon Gossip, we shock Madame Trouble,
“Dear, oh, dear, how awful!” they say; “what a very swift couple!”
We are out late at night,—out again next day!
Do we enjoy life? Well, I should say!
“Are we fond of rapid riding?” Oh yes; indeed! But what is the harm,
Since we hurt nobody, and speed has its charm?
Sometimes, we rest in the park, ’neath the leafy shade;
Do we fret and jaw, and chew the straw, when there ain’t no sweet in our lemonade?
Yes; well, yes, then to church we go with a right good will,
“Oh, oh, how can they sit there so serene and still?”
Says Trouble to Gossip, “and smile—and smile—and smile,—
And tremble not, when the minister mentions ——?” Well, well!
Our lives are chaste, and we have no dread,
Of sulphurous caldrons, or ovens red-hot.
We taste no “sour, old apples” that we should not!
In thrifty orchards by the cool wayside, trees are laden with purple plums and crimson cherries.
Yet oh, oh, yet, for “forbidden fruit” we never do fret,
In our basket for lunch we have cake and sugar and cream and fried chicken and rich ripe preserved strawberries.
In the flower-decked meadows, sometimes, we are tempted to stray
But a big notice reads, “Stay out—Keep off the Alfalfa.”
By the sweet green fields, therefore, we fairly fly,
Nay, nay, on the “sacred grass,” we never trespass;
And furthermore, we never get gay, nor sass Farmer Gray,
When we meet him in town, and he offers to sell us some hay!
And do my girl and I love? Well, now, come, come! Can’t you guess?
If we don’t, of course, of course I’m not to blame,
For she is such a fair, fresh young rosebud you know,
And I am—well, she just calls me—just plain “Uncle Sam,”
But I am—of course I’m her beau!
Of a buggy-ride this friend of mine and I are fond,
But the “metalsome steed” is our chief delight.
Adown the road we scurry at a lively rate,
And the slow-going crowd is left behind.
“Caloric individuals,” like we are, they say
“Are liable to get scorched some—some very fine day.”
But my blithe merry lass and I never hear—we are speeding away!
And little, how little, care we for what rude tattlers say?
With consciences clear as lilies are white.
We heed not the slur of Envy and Spite.
Let cripples and criplets stand aside in dismay;
We will be young when they are decrepit and gray.
Let Troubles and Gossip mistrust us and spy;
We will be angels ere such “saints” learn to fly.