The Suburbanite.

The Suburbanite.
559.7

Come all ye lads and lasses, .
Now jocund be and gay;
September’s sun is shining
And this is Labor Day.
For all the politicians
Have dirty work to do-
The labor faker’s busy,
Then be you busy too.

From forge and shop forthcoming
They march in endless files;
Now watch the politician
And note his knowing smiles;
His heart swells with the battle,
He grins and fairly gloats;
He reckons up the cattle
And counts so many votes.

Poor fools who are parading
To play his little game,
To aid his gasconading
And help the town to shame;
Your corns ache with the cobbles,
Your weary limbs you drag,
You wear the trickster’s hobbles,
And get for him the swag.