They say a touch of spring is in the air;
   They say the wattle trees with bloom are gay;
They say each garden now begins to wear --
               (Not that I care) --
   A festal garb that waxes day by day
In loneliness.  They tell, too, of blue skies
   Aglow with hope . . . I laugh them all to scorn,
And gaze upon these things with listless eyes
   That see nought but a vista most forlorn.
 
They say that bird songs come now with a rush
   Of rarest melody; the ambient air
Thrills to the voice of blackbird and of thrush
               (I answer "Tush!
   Let 'em go sing their heads off.  I don't care.")
They say a kindly sun beams o'er the earth.
   They say -- Bah!  Who pays heed to what they say?
Life is a sham; a mockery is mirth;
   I'm making out my income tax today.

"Den"
Herald, 1 July 1933, p6