In the first place what is a man to do With life in any place? That is the problem. And what could Cato Braden do with life In Winston Prairie? First he was as fitted To be a journalist as I, and if Endowed to be a journalist, just think Of editing The Eagle. But you see His father was at war then with the Lance Over that vermifuge and pesodorne. And under guise of starting him in life Bought Cato in the paper for the selfish Purpose of defending vermifuge. And Cato did it too, and put away From year to year his dream of studying The law and practicing in a city. During which time the poisons of this town Crept in his blood and stupefied and killed him. He married Mary Comfort, as you know. And Mary is--well, what I call a brood-mare, Although they had no children. What I mean She is a well-fleshed woman, sound of nerve, A help-eat, but she made a loyal wife Who had two eyes to see what Cato saw, And never an eye to help him see the things That lay around him, which he stumbled over. And marriage to my mind means this to man: He drains his body out to be a father, And drains his spirit out to be a husband, Unless the woman helps him see or feel More than he sees or feels for self. Well then The years went on. And every day at eight He could be seen toward his office bent. At half past ten just as the morning train Was whistling for the crossing he would go To get the mail. Returning he would walk Along Main Street, slapping the folded News Against his leg. He scanned it in his office. At twelve o’clock he went to dinner, then As whisky made him eat, he over-ate And took a nap till two o’clock. At three One might discover him at solitaire-- He had clipped from the morning paper quite enough To keep the boys in copy. Then at four He might be sitting at the livery stable, Or sometimes might be found in that back room Of Little’s restaurant, where a keg of beer Shipped in was being tapped. At night perhaps He might be seen down there on Locust street, Waiting to enter where the milliner lived. So passed his life away from twenty-four To fifty-one. It’s simple enough to ask Why not write for the Eagle, make it better, Give ideas to the people, help the town, Refresh the mind, read, study history, De Senectute? Fancy Teddy Roosevelt, Who’s labored for this land with restless gifts, Tied down in Winston Prairie--well, you can’t, He’d break the ties, and that’s the point, you see. For Cato couldn’t break them, had to stay, Incapable to extract the good that’s here, Susceptible to all the bad that’s here; He was a nose half active Who enters in a room where gas escapes, Sits in the room unconscious of the gas Till he grows sluggish, lies him down to rest And dies unknowing. So I say it’s true