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!