The Beauties of Gas

So strange it seems to me,
How it has come to pass
That not one poet sings
The beauties of our gas.

They sing about the birds,
And trees, and flowers, and grass
And art and fame and love,
But never touch on gas.

They tell us of the man
Eloping with a lass,
Whose light has been blown out–
Why not turn on the gas ?

And at the "white man's load"
Many have made a pass;
Could we not lighten this
By turning on the gas ?

^__J. M. Cavaness.