Letter to the Editor from a Country Bumpkin.

Sir,—

I'm just a country bumpkin, down among my spuds and pumpkins,
But I sometimes sit a-scribbling with my pen.
For I'd like to write a ditty, all about the wicked city,
And the way it snares and ruins honest men.
But my thoughts keep coming wrong, sir,
For I'm feeling pretty strong, sir,
That the city's not as bad as people say;
For well do I remember,
I was up there one September,
And I really rather thought I'd like to stay.
And the thought comes with persistence,
In a former gay existence,
Oh, I must have been a “townie” born and bred.
As I'm hoeing out the weeds,
And I'm raking in the seeds,
How I wish that I might drive a car instead!
For the whirr of a machine,
And the odour of benzine,
Seem to get into my head and make me sing;
And rebellious thoughts come thronging,
And my heart is filled with longing,
And I seem to feel the city's just the thing.
Yes, I love the avid city,
With its girls so pert and pretty,
And the glitter and the glamour and the glare;
And the crowds so mixed and merry,
And the rush for tram and ferry,
And the light and life and laughter everywhere.
Oh, I know the country's best,
For our health and all the rest,
And on our cheeks it puts a ruddy glow,
But the city seems to beckon,
And some morning soon, I reckon,
I'll simply have to pack my swag and go!
Yes, I know the city's bad,
And I know it's very sad
The way the country sons desert the sod;
But those cows I can't abide, sir,
Now, I'll lay my pen aside, sir,
So, good-bye, from your respectful

—Johnny Clodd.

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