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Show Rippling' Rhym es By WALT MASON. HOUSES ARE HOUSES. The town Is shortot dwellings of small or larger size, and so wo hear the yellings ot heartsick homeless guys; they hustle, helter-skelter, to ny to rent a shelter of some harJ-hcarted poller, unmoved by all their cries. Jt's hard to ralso the ante, for any common com-mon gent; for he could build a shanty with what he pays in rem: but there's no Uillder willing to lake his hard-earned hard-earned shilling and help him make a killing, and hence his loud lament. I zee ?ho homeless hiking around mo everywhere; ev-erywhere; their bosoms they are striking, strik-ing, and taarlnc of their hair; men flaunt their rolls of kronors, and ciy, "Rent up a shack, or we are simply goners, alas, and eke alac'c. Our kinds and wives are weeping, for they must do iheir sleeping In barns whera rain is seeping through every beastly crack. Our uncles and our grannies in corn-cribs corn-cribs sit and 3fch, whllo through the open crannies the winds go whizzing by; then rent to us, my master, a house with lath and plaster, or there will bo disaster, and fireworks popping h'Ph." In vain there arc no houses that they can rent or hire, which grcw-soino grcw-soino fact reminds my sturu patrician in.-; that ncn who have tin plunder can't rest, a rooftreo under, fills me vI'h wrath and wonder, the while. I kick my lyre. nn |