Thomas Millard Henry, "Ruthlessville" (1923)
I mean the folks of Ruthlessville —
Beneath each bed are liquor jugs;
Narcotic dirt their corners fill.
I mean the folks of Ruthlessville.
Their cupboards smell of musty foods,
Their wealth leans to a wanton use.
They swell their breasts with heartless moods
And leave the coils of virtue loose.
I mean the folks of Ruthlessville.
They squint an eye at aims sublime,
In blowing bubbles they have push.
A trifle grinds away their time;
They breathe an artificial wish;
I mean the folks of Ruthlessville.
Their mode of life is like the bears'—
Blind to the energy of truth.
Their thumbs are down on him who cares;
They hurt him like an aching tooth.
I mean the folks of Ruthlessville.
Published in The Messenger, September 1923