Move!

We are on the main line of a crowded track; We've got to go forward; we can't go back And run the risk of colliding: We must make schedule, not now and again, But always, forever and ever, amen! Or else switch off on a siding. If ever we loaf, like a car in the yard, Doesn't somebody bump us, and bump us hard, I wonder?

You've succeeded in building a pretty fair trade, But can you sit down in the grateful shade And kill time cutting up capers? Or must you hustle and scheme and sweat, Though the shine be fine or the weather be wet, And keep your page in the papers? If ever you fail to be pulling the strings, Aren't some of your rivals around doing things, I wonder?

You're a first-class salesman. You know your line; Your house is good and your goods are fine, So you fill your book with orders, But can you get quit of the ball and chain, Or are you in jail on a railroad train, With blue-coated men for warders? If you sent your samples and cut out the trip, Wouldn't somebody else soon be lugging your grip, I wonder?

You are starred on the bills and are chummy with fame; The man on the corner could tell you your name At three o'clock in the morning, But can you depend on the mind of the mob? Can you tell your press-agent to look for a job, Or give your manager warning? Should you lie down to sleep, with your laurels beneath, Wouldn't somebody else soon be wearing your wreath, I wonder?

Oh, I'm willing to work, but I wish I could lag, Not feeling as if I were "it" for tag, Or last in follow-my-leader; There is only one spot where, I haven't a doubt, Nobody will try to be crowding me out, And that is under the cedar. And even in that place, will Gabriel's trump Come nagging along and be making me jump? I wonder.

GET NEXT.

Chap. I., verse 1, is where you'll find The text of what is in my mind If, haply, you are so inclined. Chap. I., verse 1--the primal rule For saint or sinner, sage or fool, No matter what his church or school. Though you may call it slangy solely, Though you may term it flippant wholly, Truth still is truth and is not vexed; I write this rhyme to prove the text-- Get Next.

Suppose I sought some lonely height And dipped a stylus in the light Of welding worlds and sought to write Upon the highest, deepest blue My message to Sam Smith and you. The chances are it would not do. You would not risk your neck to read My much too altitudinous screed, And I, chagrined and half-perplexed, Had missed you when I missed my text-- Get Next.

Suppose you have a breakfast food Which you conceive I should include Within my lat-and-longitude. 'T is not enough to have the stuff, But you must post, and praise, and puff, Until I memo. on my cuff, Among my most important notes-- Be sure to bring home Oatless Oats. And then you know that I'm annexed, Because you followed out the text-- Get Next.

Get next! get next! and hold it true There's one you must get nextest to, And that important one is you. Be not of those who, uncommuned With their own skins, have all but swooned From some imaginary wound, But strip the rags from off your soul And find you are not maimed, but whole! 'T is but a flea-bite which has vexed As soon as you've applied the text-- Get Next.

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