THE COMMISSION TO GRIND.
By J. J. Maxfield
Grind, grind
The poor unfortunate under your heel;
If he owes you a dollar, or even a real,
Go after him lively—your duty is plain—
The law will be with you, so at him again!
Here's greed for the grasping, for many or few,
For rich corporations, monopolies too,
The bloated bondholder, the gamblers in stocks,
For any prime factor possessing the rocks,
No matter how honest your victim may be,
Just raise him a peg that your neighbors may see
That duty alone is the motive to grind
To dust or to powder each debtor you find. Grind, grind;
Your victim may think you severe for awhile;
He'll learn by degrees it is only your style;
Just think him a liar whatever his plea,
And tell him that mercy lies over the sea;
Be sure that you rake him until he is dumb,
But tell him you mean it—the dollar must come.
Your conscience may plead and your victim implore,
And thoughts of hereafter may trouble you sore,
But pity is weakness, and not in your role,
For softness like that there's no room in your soul.
Just buy up your conscience that brands you a fraud
By giving a shilling for missions abroad. Grind, grind;
The poor man that toils in your vineyard to-day
Has only the claim on your promise to pay;
Your duty is clear—you've the right of a man
To get him to serve you as cheap as you can,
And if it is less than will buy him his bread,
So much for your shrewdness—you’re that much ahead—
No matter how empty his larder has grown,
How dreary the winter, how hungry and lone
His wife and his children are sitting to-day
In the comfortless hovel just over the way.
Though sleepless with cold they may wait for the dawn,
So tired and cheerless, life's sunshine all gone,
What matter to you is the prayer or the groan
That rises in sadness to Him on the throne?
Your duty is urgent, and clearly defined,
And lies in your wonderful aptness to grind. Grind, grind;
The grist is all ready, and why should you wait,
For rich or for poor, for the lowly or great?
The dollar is yours, and you need it to-day,
So grind out the money and hasten away
To find the next victim, whatever his case,
And grind him to powder, but show him no grace,
For business is business, and you are the man
To grind out the dollar whenever you can.
To yield one iota is weakness to you,
And don't you forget it; whatever you do,
Don't let any pitiful story—or “snide”—
Go through your old stingy rhinoceros hide,
For stoics like you are not easy to find
Who have such fine qualifications to grind. Grind, grind,
Though penniless Lazarus stands at your gate
And tells you his story and begs you to wait;
His rent is past due, and his barrel of meal
Has wasted untimely, yet, down with your heel!
And, spite of the sickness and famine he pleads,
The lack of employment to furnish his needs,
Be firm and unyielding, and deaf as a post,
But show him of mercy not even a ghost.
The sternness within that has cost you so dear
'Twere folly to yield at the sight of a tear;
The man is a dog and is having his day,
And not to be spared if unable to pay.
Next Sabbath at church you can sit in your pew,
So quiet and saintly, as good people do,
And, while you are mingling your prayers and your tears,
The parson in black may allay all your fears,
And order his sermon to tickle your ears.