The Unkindest Cut.
I've fallen, for the motor craze; I love the smooth, and open road, And I have only words of praise, For travel's most delightful mode, Until a. ear goes whizzing by, With some of Boobville's upper crust. And this inscription meets my eye-— "Excuse ray.dust.". My soul abhors a. vulgar brawft, My 'scutcheon bears the dove ,of peace,-' Arid joy will fill my heart when all ' The tumult and the strife shall cease; But when a car roars past through space., / I feel a surge of murder-flusi To find it flaunting in my face— ■"Excuse my dust." The man. who runs a motor oar, . . Displaying that inane device, Deserves to swim in seething tar, Or something equally as: nice; Yet though their mills grind fine and ' slew, I know the watching- gods are just, Arid judgment waits for those who show— , . . "Excuse my dust."
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/NZFL19180118.2.56
Bibliographic details
Free Lance, Volume XVII, Issue 914, 18 January 1918, Page 23
Word Count
147The Unkindest Cut. Free Lance, Volume XVII, Issue 914, 18 January 1918, Page 23
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