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by Berton Braley
Where the sparks of the white-hot welder play,
Where the searchlights stab at the fogbank grey,
Where the bright lights glare on the Great White Way,
The Slave of the Lamp is lurking,
The Slave of the Lamp, yet the Master too,
The wizard of light in a world made new
Where the fairy tales of the past come true
And the dreams of the past are working!
The power house is his charge to keep,
Where the dynamos whir and the blue sparks leap,
And death is waiting--if caution sleep--
In the midst of the day's endeavour,
For if ever if that harnessed might break loose
From the chains that hold it bound for use,
The slave of the Lamp--and the Boss of the Juice--
Is done with the Job, forever!
He tinkers away at the trolley wire
Or jauntly dares the third rail's ire,
That things may run to his heart's desire
And the work of the world hold steady.
Would you hire a man who is schooled to jolts,
Who can play ping pong with the thunderbolts
And juggle away with a million volts?
The Slave of the Lamp is ready!
Quent Cordair Fine Art
346 Lorton Avenue, Burlingame, CA 94010
© 1996-2006, Quent Cordair Fine Art. All rights reserved.