I Was The Sunday-School Superintendent, The Dummy President Of The Wagon Works And The Canning Factory, Acting For Thomas Rhodes And The Banking Clique; My Son The Cashier Of The Bank, Wedded To Rhodes, Daughter, My Week Days Spent In Making Money, My Sundays At Church And In Prayer. In Everything A Cog In The Wheel Of Things - As - They-Are: Of Money, Master And Man, Made White With The Paint Of The Christian Creed. And Then: The Bank Collapsed. I Stood And Hooked At The Wrecked Machine - The Wheels With Blow-Holes Stopped With Putty And Painted; The Rotten Bolts, The Broken Rods; And Only The Hopper For Souls Fit To Be Used Again In A New Devourer Of Life, When Newspapers, Judges And Money-Magicians Build Over Again. I Was Stripped To The Bone, But I Lay In The Rock Of Ages, Seeing Now Through The Game, No Longer A Dupe, And Knowing "'The Upright Shall Dwell In The Land But The Years Of The Wicked Shall Be Shortened." Then Suddenly, Dr. Meyers Discovered A Cancer In My Liver. I Was Not, After All, The Particular Care Of God Why, Even Thus Standing On A Peak Above The Mists Through Which I Had Climbed, And Ready For Larger Life In The World, Eternal Forces Moved Me On With A Push.