From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 87-88.
NOBODY LOVES A LAND-
LORD
My landlord he has up and went
And been and gone and raised my rent.
How lucky is the sluggish snail
Who crawls about and drags his tail;
He has no need to rent a shack
But packs his ’round upon his back.
How happy too the torpid turtle,
Well roofed from all the showers that spurtle.
The astute Arabs pitch their tents
And squat therein and pay no rents.
They have no tables and no chairs,
No furnace and no cellar stairs,
But sit around upon their haunches
And feed ripe dates into their paunches.
I’d like to live in just that way.
When someone spoke of rent to pay,
I’d fold my tents and steal away.
Consider Noah on the waters
With all his sons and in-law daughters.
Although he wandered far from shore,
The ark was roofed behind, before.
Beneath that roof right snug he sat,
[88]
And though at night the beasts might blat,
He had no landlord for his flat.
From my rude couch I rise betimes
And rattle off some Rural Rhymes.
Some paper buys those songs of glee
And sends a modest check to me.
Then I endorse it on the back,
“Pay to John Smith for rent of shack.”
I like the luxuries of life,
I like silk stockings on my wife,
But I must pay these bills that hurt,
E’en though the baby lacks a shirt.
There is a wise old song that shows
How day by day the money goes —
A nickel for a spool of thread
A penny for a needle,
But mostly for to keep away
the sheriff and the beadle.