The Poor Man’S Club

The Poor Man’s Club is a wonderful place, Neither fashionable, swift nor slow, A kindly, rare, psychological spot, As those who frequent it well know. It’s built on the marvelous “Dutch treat” plan Which is sane and destructive to fear. You stand for yourself, also pay for yourself, And expand in democracy’s cheer. Now this old club, in fact, is just an excuse For a rare metaphysical “bee.” “Missourians” they, with a look which conveys: “My friend, you will have to show me.” No cynical scoff nor ironical thrust, No skeptical look nor a sneer, Just a leveling kind, “don’t throw a bluff” glance, Then “welcome here without fear.” The Poor Man’s Club hates the stuffed suit kind; I opine it dislikes the “know It all” sort, the artistically weird, Still more it detests the blow. It ignores the sycophant’s sly, smooth tricks And the man who tries to droll. It shunts a cold, climbing, cynical cad As it would a plain damned fool. In short it’s a sane sort of potpourri Or a melting pot, you know, For “high brow,” “low brow,” no brows at all, Or flotsam who just come and go. Yes, the Poor Man’s Club is a leveling place For the man with mental bumps. Its light and cheer are just the best boost For the one who’s in the dumps. Life’s edges rough with a deft, tactful touch, It smooths for the man who’s down, And the one who’s up never tries the snide trick Of a patronizing frown. So if some night you are all out of sorts And don’t know what to do, Why just drop in to the Poor Man’s Club, And let me present to you First “Jack” and “Mac,” then old “Skeff” and “Lope” And “Jawn” and rare “Doc” and “Bill,” Also “Mont” and “Cook,” or some “also ran brows,” And then you can have your fill Of talk that’s light and a good heartening up And kindly repartee, In the night you spend in parry and tierce At the sign of the “Old P. M. C.”

(Philadelphia Press, July 16, 1911).