Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
This is a property of type Text.
K
<div class="poem">
<p>Soldier ban', formed in a ring,<br />
Strike up "God save our king";<br />
Gub'nor come now by God's grace<br />
To de Knutsford Park big race:<br />
High faces among low faces<br />
At de Knutsford Park big races.
</p>
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>Some Indians hooted and jeered at us, getting a great kick out of seeing us work, but we laughed with them because we were making slow but sure progress and would soon be gone. We were two days in this valley, turning west at Coyote Park to go over a low range of mountains.
</p>
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>Some day again we will see the place,<br />
And, too, in our memory each one's face,<br />
In a Six Studebaker so easy and free,<br />
Where the old homestead used to be.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>Some good roads, some bad roads<br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 1em;">Are roads of dust and grime;</span><br />
Some rest roads and toil roads,<br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 1em;">Then some that lead to crime.</span><br />
The best road's the west road<br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 1em;">Which becks with quiet call.</span><br />
The straight road, though hard road,<br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 1em;">Is the best road after all.</span>
</p>
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O
<div class="poem">
<p>Some years intervened between this and our second visit, when we found the City of the Angels a thriving metropolis with hundreds of palatial structures and the most perfect system of interurban transportation to be found anywhere, while its northern rival had risen from debris and ashes in serried ranks of concrete and steel. A tour of the Yosemite gave us new ideas of California's scenic grandeur; there began to dawn on us vistas of the endless possibilities that the Golden State offers to the tourist and we resolved on a longer sojourn at the first favorable opportunity.
</p>
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W
<div class="poem">
<p>Somebody croaked it can't be done,<br />
Service by night without the sun.<br />
Expenses great will bring you ruin,<br />
We heard them not with all their wooin'.<br />
We have done the thing that couldn't be done.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>Somebody gibed it can't be done,<br />
This thing and that and the other one.<br />
So we took off our coat and defied the whole ring,<br />
And we started to sing as we tackled the thing.<br />
We have done the thing that couldn't be done.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Somebody mocked it can't be done,<br />
Back with you name the cars that 'ave run.<br />
Your profits will in them surely go,<br />
The public be d—d so take them low.<br />
We have done the thing that couldn't be done.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Somebody said it can't be done,<br />
Salaries to all and commissions none.<br />
We smiled till tears were in our eyes,<br />
For can't is a word we do despise.<br />
We have done the thing that couldn't be done.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Somebody scoffed it can't be done,<br />
Seven per cent to every last one.<br />
No compound rate or broker's fee,<br />
Will send you sure into bankruptcy.<br />
We have done the thing that couldn't be done.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Somebody sneered it can't be done,<br />
Carry your paper for each mother's son.<br />
You can't collect, your loss run high,<br />
Let broker and banker cut the pie.<br />
We have done the thing that couldn't be done.
</p>
</div> +
C
<div class="poem">
<p>Sometime later a nicely dressed man came into Fred's sales room, introduced himself and said, "You remember me, don't you?" It was the man he had clipped on the chin in the Colorado Springs garage. After a chat, he gave Fred a ticket to the Denver Athletic Club for a certain night, making him promise to go to the fights there. When Fred did, he found that the man was a prize-fighter in the principal bout of the evening. I thought this was a very clever way to let Fred discover his occupation; then and there, Fred decided to be more careful about starting a fight with any other athletic stranger who might not be the gentleman this man was.
</p>
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B
<div class="poem">
<p>Sometimes as an authority<br />
On motor-cars, I’m asked if I<br />
Should say our stock was petered out,<br />
And this is my sincere reply:
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Sometimes he came with arms outspread<br />
Like wings, revolving in the scene<br />
Upon his longer axis, and<br />
With no small dignity of mien.
</p>
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>Soon after leaving Promontory, we got into such bad gumbo mud we were glad to back out, after much trouble, and drive on the railroad track as we had been told we would have to do. There were three trains a week on this road to hold the right of way (the main line had been built across Salt Lake). Since this was not a train day, we drove over the road bed and ties, stopping often, as the bumping from tie to tie set our car bouncing on the coil springs, endangering the flywheel. Once two wheels slipped off the tie-ends into the mud and the car hung on the inside of the rail by the other two wheels, at an angle of thirty degrees. We worked with old ties and sticks to raise the wheels from the mud, finally getting them on the ties again. We drove all day in a fog, never stopping for lunch, and made all of 17 miles.
</p>
</div> +
S
<div class="poem">
<p>Soprano had a holy time,<br />
The alto wasn’t far behind,<br />
Each had tried their vocal range,<br />
Still, from holy not a change.
</p>
</div> +
F
<div class="poem">
<p>South from Walsenburg, the next day we swung past the Spanish Peaks, snow-white above the evergreens. Mountains were everywhere. They leaned in to- ward us threateningly through the clear air from all sides. Then down through Trinidad, toward Raton, New Mexico, the way wound around foothills, black with outcroppings of coal. From Raton we left the railroad lines, which had paralleled us, and pushed across the level plains, where cattle turned and ran in herds at the sight of a motor on the old Mexican land grant and the machine slowed down, necessarily, and followed the burro pace-maker. After a night in an old adobe house in Cimarron we went down through the cañon, its rocky walls echoing in hollow calls the throbbing of the machine. As we hurried along, a fuzzy-coated burro walked out placidly before the car and nonchalantly jogged along, and the machine slowed down, necessarily, and followed the burro pace-maker. And so we were led into Elizabethtown, whose placer diggings were the scene of a wild scramble in '68.
</p>
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X
<div class="poem">
<p>Squeeze into the works through broken windows or through damp-sprung doors; <br />
See the rotted shafting, see holes gaping in the upper floors;
</p>
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G
<div class="poem">
<p>Squeeze into the works through broken windows or through damp-sprung doors; <br />
See the rotted shafting, see holes gaping in the upper floors;
</p>
</div> +
W
<div class="poem">
<p>Starless and still...<br />
Who stopped this heart?<br />
Who bound this city in a trance?
</p>
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