The worst of all idolators Are zealous radiolatersWho wreck the peace of erstwhile happy homes With drool of variometers, Detectors, galvanometers,Antennae, switches, batteries and ohms.
Their eyes devoutly glistening, They'll sit for ages listeningWith clumsy rubber muffs upon their ears, And hail the shrieking mordancies Of far-away discordanciesAs though they were the music of the spheres. They'll stand for prosy summaries And monologues and mummeriesOf folks you couldn't wheedle them to see, The rant of revolutionists And awful elocutionists,Because they come from Newark, XYZ.
They'll take the driest serial So long as it's aërial;They'll take the saddest sentimental gush The ambient may squeak to them; But if you dare to speak to themThe only sound you get from them is, "Shush!"
In Nome or sweet Lafcadio There's no escape from Radio!Then, since you cannot dodge the atmosphere, My songs shall cheer or trouble you From Station PKW,Because, at least, I'd rather talk than hear!
EPILOGUE
(With the kind assistance of Mr. Longfellow.)
I breathed a song into the air; That little song of beauty rare Is flying still, for all I know, Around the world by Radio.
