The Millionaires

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Title:     The Millionaires
Author: Walt Mason [More Titles by Mason]

They like to make the people think that all their piles of yellow chink, are weary burdens, to be borne, with eyes that weep and hearts that mourn; but as you jog along the road, you see no millionaires unload. They like to talk and drone and drool, to growing youths in Sunday school, and tell them that the poor man's lot is just the thing that hits the spot; to warn them of ambition's goad--they talk, and talk, but don't unload. They like to talk of days long gone, when life for them was at its dawn, and they were poor and bent with toil, and drew their living from the soil, and lived in some obscure abode--and so they dream, but don't unload. They like to take a check in hand, and, headed by the village band, present it to some charity--'twould mean five cents to you or me; then they're embalmed in song and ode; they smirk and smile, but don't unload.

[The end]
Walt Mason's poem: Millionaires

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