Take us back to Mellerdrarmer, more than twenty years ago,
When our faith was yet untainted and the “gods” still ran the show;
When She wasn't Bought and Paid For (you can bet yer blarsted life!)
And the only lies we knew of were the Lies he Told his Wife.

(Or the lies he told his friend's wife just to set that lady right,
As to who her husband was with—as to where he stayed last night;
To corroborate a cobber in the sinful Days of Drink,
When our wives—unpoliticted—had too damn much time to think.)

Take us back to Mellerdrarmer, nearly thirty years ago,
When the things we saw were real and the rest we didn't know;
When we never dreamed that sweethearts (not the dead flat things on screens)
Ever slapped each other's faces when they got behind the scenes.

When the hero was a hero, and the heroine his “life”,
And the good stage never hinted at the pair's domestic strife;
At the dirty private problem or the great eternal Nag—
But I prose. The gods are whistling: “Cut it out! Up with the rag!”

Send us back to Mellerdrarmer, for our hearts are simple yet,
And, in spite of Her Confession, 'tis the Man who Pays, you bet!
Send the old Face to the Winder, let its eyeballs roll and glare—
O the lies he Told her Husband had no chance to get in there!

Give us back the Wrong we hated and the Justice that we loved
Ere the playwright put the problem: “Did She Fall or Was She Shoved?”
(It was half-and-half, I reckon; but they'll tell you in that town
That, whichever way it happened, 'twas the Woman Dragged Him Down.)

Give us back our brown-cloaked outcast with the hood to hide her hair,
And the local drunk who helped her in the depths of her despair.
Our More Sinned against than Sinning (though the poor girl knew all through
Just how many beans made five beans—and the Villain knew she knew).

Give us back our well-dressed villian, just to show what good suits are,
With his card-case, mo., and nail-knife, and his eyeglass and cigar.
Club and bind and gag the hero in a cellar in a slum,
With two likely souls to “fix 'im”—Mother Snark and Bill the Bum.

Send us back the village “loony” from the sea, or from the hay,
To protect the leading lady while the leading man's away.
Let her cry: “I WILL , I MUST KNOW !” Likewise: “He is in-no-cent!”
Send a message to decoy her, and the gods will be content.

Then, to make things doubly certain, kill the Faithful Servant dead;
Send the Witness to a rat-house, strap him down and shave his head.
(He's a universal nuisance, or a danger dark and grim—
Let a few days on low diet knock the nonsense out of him.)

Lastly, let the local “loony” free the hero in the slum,
What time Mother Snark, repentant, makes it warm for Bill the Bum.
Fish the Wronged Girl from the river by the moonbeam's misty light,
Get her married to the Villain. (That'll finish him all right.)

Send us Silence to our Woman to the Measure of her Brain.
(O the World was Not Against Her till the “pictures” made it plain.)
And, you babbling fools who always leave off just where you commence,
Find, O find the Missing Will of Cabbage-garden Common-sense!