$2.50

But that dashing, dauntless, delphic, diehard, diabolic
cracker likes his fiction turned with a certain elegance
and wit; and that anti-anti-anti slum-congestion
clublady prefers romance;

search through the mothballs, comb the lavendar and
lace,
were her desires and struggles futile or did an innate
fineness bring him at last to a prouder, richer peace
in a world gone somehow mad?

We want one more compelling novel, Mr. Filbert Sopkins
Jones,
all about it, all about it,
with signed testimonials to its stark, human, while-uwait,
iced-or-heated, taste-that-sunshine tenderness
and truth;
one more comedy of manners, Sir Warwick Aldous
Wells, involving three blond souls; tried in the
crucible of war, Countess Olga out-of-limbo by
Hearst through the steerage peerage,
glamorous, gripping, moving, try it, send for a 5 cent,
10 cent sample, restores faith to the flophouse,
workhouse, warehouse, whorehouse, bughouse life
of man,
just one more long poem that sings a more heroic age,
baby Edwin, 58,

But the faith is all gone,
and all the courage is gone, used up, devoured on the
first morning of a home relief menu,
you’ll have to borrow it from the picket killed last
Tuesday on the fancy knitgoods line;
and the glamor, the ice for the cocktails, the shy appeal,
the favors for the subdeb ball? O.K.,
O.K.,
but they smell of exports to the cannibals,
reek of something blown away from the muzzle of a
twenty inch gun;

Lady, the demand is for a dream that lives and grows and
does not fade when the midnight theater special
pulls out on track 15;
cracker, the demand is for a dream that stands and
quickens and does not crumble when a General
Motors dividend is passed;
lady, the demand is for a dream that lives and grows
and does not die when the national guardsmen fix
those cold, bright bayonets;
cracker, the demand is for a dream that stays, grows
real, withstands the benign, afternoon vision of the
clublady, survives the cracker’s evening fantasy of
honor, and profit, and grace.