Ambassadors of Grief
There was a little fliv of a woman loved one man and lost out. And she took up with another and it was a blank again. And she cried to God the whole layout was a fake and a frame-up. And when she took up with Number Three she found the fires burnt out, the love power, gone. And she wrote a letter to God and dropped it in a mail-box. The letter said:
O God, ain't there some way you can fix it up so the little flivs of women, ready to throw themselves in front of railroad trains for men they love, can have a chance? I guessed the wrong keys, I battered on the wrong panels, I picked the wrong roads. O God, ain't there no way to guess gain and start all over back where I had the keys in my hands, back where the roads all came together and I had my pick?
And the letter went to Washington, D. C., dumped into a dump where all letters go addressed to God — and no house number.
O God, ain't there some way you can fix it up so the little flivs of women, ready to throw themselves in front of railroad trains for men they love, can have a chance? I guessed the wrong keys, I battered on the wrong panels, I picked the wrong roads. O God, ain't there no way to guess gain and start all over back where I had the keys in my hands, back where the roads all came together and I had my pick?
And the letter went to Washington, D. C., dumped into a dump where all letters go addressed to God — and no house number.
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