Think? I Don't Think.

The youth who hankers to sit by the wayside and dream of things beyond the reck of ready-reckoners, who fain would ponder on the mystery of the invisible and indivisible ego, who would dare to doubt the quibbulous questing of the “homo sappy-ends,” who would question the efficacy of his aims, the direction of his progress, and the state of his soul, gets it in the neck with a stay-of-proceedings or a “quid nunc” or something. For—

The watchword, you ham!—
The watchword is “Scram!”
Climb out of your pram,
Get after the jam,
Get going or sink,
There's no time to think,
The pace is a cracker,
A high-pressure smacker,
Keep busy, keep moving,
Each moment improving
Towards—well, I guess
The answer's Success.
You say you have doubt
As to what it's about?
You say you are hazy,
Uncertain and mazy?
Aw! Step on it brother!
Keep moving or smother—
You're crazy.

Don't brood like a mourner,
There's cash around the corner,
What's that about Knowledge?
Why, this is no college,
It's high-pressure biz.
It's life with a fizz,
It's great, it's colossal,
Now don't be a fossil,
Come off it and move,
Get out of your groove,
Be keen and progressive,
Your fear is excessive.
You think I should think?
Aw, let's have a drink,
Thought gets me all dizzy,
Besides—I'm too busy
To think in my prime,
I haven't got time.

To finish this fairy story we should paint a poignant picture of youth, grown old, sitting with Success, jaded but jewelled, gazing through mullioned casements framed in cloth-of-gold curtains, at the setting sun of lost opportunity. We should have him hearking regretfully to the evening notes of the nesting tomtit and murmuring “Ah, me—ah, me.”

We should portray him eyeing with envy the merry milkman carrying home his five rosy little butter-fat daughters in a ten-gallon can. We should—but, no; it's no use rubbing it in— and nobody would believe us, anyway.