All Fools’ Day

Once more comes round the season gay,
When folly claims her festive day;
Her day of blithe fantastic fun,
When gawks on bootless errands run;
When greenhorn schoolboys, mug in hand,
Their pint of pigeon’s-milk demand;
When circulars arrive, entreating
Attendance at some bogus meeting;
When mischief reigns, and urchins sly
Play pranks on sober passers-by;
Nor need the rogues due vengeance fear,
Since April comes but once a year.

Yet one there is, foredoomed by fate
To mockery of a longer date;
The Workman,—who must pine and mope,
Like Tantalus, in hopeless hope,
Each year, each month, each week, each day,
Grim disappointment’s helpless prey;
Must sweat and toil from youth to age,
Oft cheated of the oft-earned wage;
Hear talk of philanthropic schemes
More childish than a dotard’s dreams;
Be hailed free man by statesmen grave,
Yet treated worse than negro slave;
Bereft of substance, hope and health,
That scamps may squander countless wealth.

Thus, day by day, and week by week,
Seeking the bliss that’s still to seek;
And month by month, and year by year,
Nearing the prize that’s never near,
He lives, the rich man’s dupe and tool,
An everlasting April Fool.