We're hiking along at a two-forty pace <br />We 're making life seem like a man-killing race, <br />With our nerves all on edge and our jaws firmly set <br />We go rushing along; with our brows lined with sweat <br />And our cheeks pale and drawn every minute we dash, <br />And the goal that we 're after is merely more cash. <br /> <br />We 're out for the money, the greenbacks and gold, <br />We 're all scared to death we'll be poor when we're old; <br />We want the mazuma, and want it right now, <br />And we spend all our time at the desk and the plow, <br />We 're working like navvies, refusing to see <br />The gold of the sun and the green of the tree. <br /> <br />We've got in a rut that the dollar sign dug, <br />And we 're plainly obsessed by the millionaire bug; <br />We've loaded our backs till they bend with the strain <br />And we lug and we tug at our burdens in vain; <br />With never a minute for laughter and fun, <br />Or the green of the tree and the gold of the sun. <br /> <br />A few of us land in the millionaire class, <br />But only to find that our gold is all brass; <br />That the money we've got we would gladly give back <br />For a stomach and liver that weren't out of whack; <br />For legs that were supple and eyes that could see <br />The gold of the sun and the green of the tree. <br /> <br />The trouble with us is we 're working too hard, <br />We ought to get out with the kids in the yard, <br />We ought to let slip a few dollars to play <br />With the friends that we love, and we ought to be gay; <br />The pace is too fast for our nerves and our health, <br />We should laugh more and cut out this chase after wealth.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-killing-place/
