by Arthur Guiterman
The worst of all idolators
Are zealous radiolaters
Who wreck the peace of erstwhile happy homes
With drool of variometers,
Antennae, switches, batteries and ohms.
Their eyes devoutly glistening,
They'll sit for ages listening
With clumsy rubber muffs upon their ears,
And hail the shrieking mordancies
Of far-away discordancies
As though they were the music of the spheres.
They'll stand for prosy summaries
And monologues and mummeries
Of folks you couldn't wheedle them to see,
The rant of revolutionists
And awful elocutionists,
Because they come from Newark, XYZ.
They'll take the driest serial
So long as it's aÃ«rial;
They'll take the saddest sentimental gush
The ambient may squeak to them;
But if you dare to speak to them
The only sound you get from them is, "Shush!"
In Nome or sweet Lafcadio
There's no escape from Radio!
Then, since you cannot dodge the atmosphere,
My songs shall cheer or trouble you
From Station PKW,
Because, at least, I'd rather talk than hear!
(With the kind assistance of Mr. Longfellow.)
I breathed a song into the air;
That little song of beauty rare
Is flying still, for all I know,
Around the world by Radio.
Last updated January 14, 2019