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.