From The Detroit Times, August 12, 1913. By Minna Irving.
We heard with equanimity
That coal was soaring high,
We bore it when the price of meat
Went kiting to the sky;
When eggs and butter followed suit
We stood it like a sport.
But lo, the worst has come at last—
The peanut crop is short.
When sailing Coney Island-ward
Across the ocean swells,
No longer can we leave a wake
Of bobbing empty shells.
And when to circuses and such
We merrily resort,
We cannot feed the elephant—
The peanut crop is short.
Oh, what is Summer time without
The tuber of delight?
We ought to bust the peanut trust,
We ought to make a fight;
We ought to put our woe in print,
We ought to go to court,
We ought to take the war-path when
The peanut crop is short.
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