Classic Poem

If so the man you are to pick up sticks
Then why expect to have a house of bricks?
Merchant of fag-ends, if that's what you are,
Why should they give you a full-sized cigar?
If so the man you are commissionaire
Stock-still to stand for a pittance, why that's fair,
If so the man you are! I can't see why
Whacked from your hobo-holding you need cry.
Balata or gold, if so the man you are
The optimist-prospector, spit on your star:
Who would hand out a hoot if such a man
Had fits of grief? I don't see how I can.
If so the man you be to set your cap
At Croesus' crooked daughters you're a low chap.
For you may marry gold, or ships or rubber
Only if you're a proper money-grubber,
If so the man you be — I'm betting boy
You're not that cold, well-turned, steel-hammered toy.
If so the man you were, upon my lice,
I'd not give you this spate of good advice! —
Since so the man you are to turn your back
Upon the baton, so I think, in your knapsack.