The Great Job-Killer or--It Could Happen Here

 Economist at Fayetteville, Arkansas

It was a sunny afternoon
At story-telling time.
Old Kaspar clipped a fresh cigar

and poured his rum-and-lime,
While Peterkin and Wilhelmine
Looked at the futurama screen.

They saw a monstrous marble tomb
Beyond a shaded square,
And groups of shabby, pallid men
Who stood in silence there;
While men in sandwich boards rehearsed
A picket line with signs reversed.

 "Now tell us what it’s all about!"
The little children cried.
"It is the tomb of Gus the Great,"
Old Kaspar soon replied.
"His union members gladly bought
A noble tomb to mark the spot."

"How old was he," asked Wilhelmine,
"And just what made him die?"
"Death came upon him in his prime,"
Said Kaspar with a sigh.
"A hungry worker ran amuck
And pushed him underneath a truck."

"Then why do people call him Great?"
Asked little Peterkin.
"He organized the General Strike;
And when the count was in,
He’d killed more jobs in one short year
Than all the Great Depressions, dear."

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