WASTED ENERGY 

  South Pokus is religious,—that's the honest, livin' truth; South Pokus folks are pious,—man and woman, maid and youth; And they listen every Sunday, though it rains or snows or shines, In their seven shabby churches, ter their seven poor divines, Who dispense the balm and comfort that the thirstin' sperit needs, By a-fittin' of the gospel ter their seven different creeds, Each one sure his road ter Heaven is the only sartin way,—   Fer South Pokus is religious, as I started off ter say. Now the Pokus population is nine hundred, more or less, Which, in one big congregation, would be quite a church, I guess, And do lots of good, I reckon; but yer see it couldn't be,—   Long's one's tweedledum was diff'rent from the other's tweedledee. So the Baptists they are Baptists, though the church is swamped in debt, And the Orthodox is rigid, though expenses can't be met, And the twenty Presbyterians 'll be Calvinists or bust,—   Fer South Pokus is religious, as I said along at fust. And the Methodist is buried, when his time comes 'round ter die, In the little weedy graveyard where no other sect can lie, And at Second Advent socials, every other Wednesday night, No one's ever really welcome but a Second Adventite; While the Unitarian brother, as he walks the village streets, Seldom bows unless another Unitarian he meets; And there's only Univers'lists in a Univers'list's store,—   Fer South Pokus is religious, as I think I said before. I thought I'd read that Jesus come ter do the whole world good,—   Come ter bind the Jew and Gentile in a lovin' brotherhood; But it seems that I'm mistaken, and I haven't read it right, And the text of "Love your neighbor" must be somewhere written "Fight"; But I want ter tell yer, church folks, and ter put it to yer strong, While you're fighting Old Nick's fellers pull tergether right along:   So yer'd better stop your squabblin', be united if yer can, Fer the Pokus way of doin' ain't no use ter God or man.  

 

     WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA 

  Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair, And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square; And the what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, And the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat; Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs; Ma's got on her best alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs; Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I'm rigged way up in G,—   And it's 

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