“Oh the flashing cornucopia of haughty California Is _gold, gold, gold_. Their brittle speech and their clutching reach Is _gold, gold, gold_. What is the fire-engine’s ding dong bell? The burden of the burble of the bull-frog in the well? _Gold, gold, gold. What_ is the color of the cup and plate And knife and fork of the chief of state? _Gold, gold, gold._ _What_ is the flavor of the Bartlett pear? _What_ is the savor of the salt sea air? _Gold, gold, gold._ _What_ is the color of the sea-girl’s hair? _Gold, gold, gold._ In the church of Jesus and the streets of Venus:-- _Gold, gold, gold._ What color are the cradle and the bridal bed? What color are the coffins of the great grey dead? _Gold, gold, gold._ What is the hue of the big whales’ hide? _Gold, gold, gold._ What is the color of their guts’ inside? _Gold, gold, gold._ “What is the color of the pumpkins in the moonlight? _Gold, gold, gold._ The color of the moth and the worm in the starlight? _Gold, gold, gold._” KALAMAZOO Once, in the city of Kalamazoo, The gods went walking, two and two, With the friendly phœnix, the stars of Orion, The speaking pony and singing lion. For in Kalamazoo in a cottage apart Lived the girl with the innocent heart. Thenceforth the city of Kalamazoo Was the envied, intimate chum of the sun. He rose from a cave by the principal street. The lions sang, the dawn-horns blew, And the ponies danced on silver feet. He hurled his clouds of love around; Deathless colors of his old heart Draped the houses and dyed the ground. Oh shrine of the wide young Yankee land, Incense city of Kalamazoo, That held, in the midnight, the priceless sun As a jeweller holds an opal in hand! From the awkward city of Oshkosh came Love the bully no whip shall tame, Bringing his gang of sinners bold. And I was the least of his Oshkosh men; But none were reticent, none were old. And we joined the singing phœnix then, And shook the lilies of Kalamazoo All for one hidden butterfly. Bulls of glory, in cars of war We charged the boulevards, proud to die For her ribbon sailing there on high. Our blood set gutters all aflame, Where the sun slept without any shame, Cold rock till he must rise again. She made great poets of wolf-eyed men-- The dear queen-bee of Kalamazoo, With her crystal wings, and her honey heart. We fought for her favors a year and a day (Oh, the bones of the dead, the Oshkosh dead, That were scattered along her pathway red!) And then, in her harum-scarum way, She left with a passing traveller-man-- With a singing Irishman Went to Japan.