The Builder and the Architect
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such eligible land:
"If this were only built upon,"
They said, "it _would_ be grand!"
"Oh, Tenants, come and live with us!"
The Builder did entreat,
"And take a little villa in
This countrified retreat,
Where stand straight rows of houses,
So very new and neat!"
The elder Tenants looked at him,
But never a word said they;
The elder Tenants winked their eyes,
As though they meant to say,
"Old birds, like we, are never caught
By chaff in such a way."
But four young Tenants hurried up,
Each eager to rent one;
Their looks were pale, their faces white,
Like muffins underdone--
Which was not odd, because, you know,
They never saw the sun.
The Builder and the Architect
Went on a year or so
Building damp villas on damp ground
Conveniently low:
And still some little houses stood
Quite empty in the row.
"I cannot think," the Builder said,
"Why people should complain
Of mortar made of mud from roads,
Or roofs that let in rain,
Or sewer-gas that comes from an
Unventilated drain."
"A fair return," the Builder said,
"Two hundred, say, per cent.,
Is all the profit that I want
On anything I've spent,
Now, if you're ready, Tenants dear,
I'll take the quarter's rent.
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