So, Estee, you are still alive! I thought
That you had died and were a blessed ghost.
I know at least your coffin once was bought
With Railroad money; and ’twas said by most
Historians that Stanford made a boast
The seller “threw you in.” That goes for naught—
Man takes delight in fancy’s fine inventions,
And woman too, ’tis said, if they are French ones.
Do you remember, Estee—ah, ’twas long
And long ago!—how fierce you grew and hot
When anything impeded the straight, strong,
Wild sweep of the great billow you had got
Atop of, like a swimmer bold? Great Scott!
How fine your wavemanship! How loud your song
Of “Down with railroads!” When the wave subsided
And left you stranded you were much divided.
Then for a time you were content to wade
The waters of the “robber barons’ ” moat.
To fetch, and carry was your humble trade,
And ferry Stanford over in a boat,
Well paid if he bestowed the kindly groat
And spoke you fair and called you pretty maid.
And when his stomach seemed a bit unsteady
You got your serviceable basin ready.
Strange man! how odd to see you, smug and spruce,
There at Chicago, burrowed in a Chair,
Not made to measure and a deal too loose,
And see you lift your little arm and swear
Democracy shall be no more! If it’s a fair
And civil question, and not too abstruse,
Were you elected as a “robber baron,”
Or as a Communist whose teeth had hair on?