Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
This is a property of type Text.
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<div class="poem">
<p>Inside the playhouse are movies from under the sea. From the heat of pavements and the dust of sidewalks, passers-by go in a breath to be witnesses of large cool sponges, large cool fishes, large cool valleys and ridges of coral spread silent in the soak of the ocean floor thousands of years.
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<p>A naked swimmer dives. A knife in his right hand shoots a streak at the throat of a shark. The tail of the shark lashes. One swing would kill the swimmer... Soon the knife goes into the soft underneck of the veering fish... Its mouthful of teeth, each tooth a dagger itself, set row on row, glistens when the shuddering, yawning cadaver is hauled up by the brothers of the swimmer.
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<p>Outside in the street is the murmur and singing of life in the sun—horses, motors, women trapsing along in flimsy clothes, play of sun-fire in their blood.
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<p>High noon. White sun flashes on the Michigan Avenue asphalt. Drum of hoofs and whirr of motors. Women trapsing along in flimsy clothes catching play of sun-fire to their skin and eyes.
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<div class="poem">
<p><span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 5em;"> <i>To the Williamson Brothers</i></span>
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<p>No more poker in the shade,<br />
No more chance to make a raid.<br />
No more chance for them to hide,<br />
They must ride and ride and ride.
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<div class="poem">
<p>A friend, to us did come who’s sore,<br />
You should have heard his awful roar.<br />
A copper on the great high-way<br />
Caught him in a trap one day.
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<div class="poem">
<p>No more loafing on the job,<br />
No more innocents to rob.<br />
They must ride both night and day<br />
If they can hope to earn their pay.
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<div class="poem">
<p><span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 11em;"> <i>—The Car wih Character.</i></span>
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<p>Our friend, to us he did confide<br />
That motor cops would have to ride.<br />
No more hiding by the road,<br />
No more chance our friend to goad.
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<p>It long has been our own opinion,<br />
That here within our small dominion,<br />
Many men have paid a fine<br />
Just from persecution blind.
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<p>One second more and he’d done ninety,<br />
The cops they worked it almost nightly.<br />
No show our friend would ever get<br />
When face to face the judge he met.
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<div class="poem">
<p>No one has yet a copper known<br />
Whose word’s not better than your own.<br />
No judge has ever yet been found<br />
With whom your word would fair go down.
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<p>If all our officers were true<br />
And treated as the same as you,<br />
Our friend would then feel he were safer<br />
Where'er he'd go in a Studebaker.
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<p>The trap was some few hundred feet,<br />
The cop was on his motor, fleet.<br />
With watch in hand he felt so nifty<br />
And made our friend out doing fifty.
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<div class="poem">
<p>But now our friend’s in greatest glee,<br />
The palmy days are o’er you see.<br />
The law has stopped the use of traps<br />
To curb abuse of motor chaps.
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<div class="poem">
<p>It’s known to all to be the law,<br />
That interest should you wish to draw,<br />
On something that you have within,<br />
You first must put that something in.
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<div class="poem">
<p>If your home is not going right,<br />
You stay out late most every night,<br />
You have no longer interest there,<br />
You’ve no investment worth the care.
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<div class="poem">
<p><span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 11em;"> <i>—The Car wih Character.</i></span>
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