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Poem	The shades of night was fallin’ slow As through New York a guy did go And nail on ev’ry barroom door A card that this here motter bore: “No beer, no work.” His brow was sad, his mouth was dry; It was the first day of July, And where, all parched and scorched it hung, These words was stenciled on his tongue: “No beer, no work.” “Oh, stay,” the maiden said, “and sup This malted milk from this here cup.” A shudder passed through that there guy, But with a moan he made reply: “No beer, no work.” At break of day, as through the town The milkman put milk bottles down, Onto one stoop a sort of snore Was heard, and then was heard no more— “No beer, no work.” The poor old guy plumb dead was found And planted in the buryin’ ground, Still graspin’ in his hand of ice Them placards with this sad device: “No beer, no work.”
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