From the Evening Star, August 10, 1915. By Philander Johnson.
The old home sometimes gets a trifle dreary
And you wander to the mountains or the sea,
And there you find, with feelings rather weary,
That things are largely as they used to be.
The same old bus arrives with bump and rattle,
The same mosquitoes make you holler “ouch.”
You find the same old weeds, the same old cattle,
The same old boarders with the same old grouch.
It isn’t very long till you are yearning
For the city you were glad to leave behind.
Your heart grows light to think of a returning
To scenes that once disturbed your peace of mind.
You long to greet the same old glare and flurry
And hear the same old tunes ground out so loud,
And take the same old street car in a hurry
And jostle onward with the same old crowd.