Rich Man

The rich man has his motor-car,   
 His country and his town estate.   
He smokes a fifty-cent cigar   
     And jeers at Fate.   
  
He frivols through the livelong day,           
 He knows not Poverty, her pinch.   
His lot seems light, his heart seems gay;   
     He has a cinch.   
  
Yet though my lamp burns low and dim,   
 Though I must slave for livelihood—    
Think you that I would change with him?   
     You bet I would!