Small towns 
Crawling out of their green shirts . . . 
Tubercular towns 
Coughing a little in the dawn . . . 
And the church  . . . 
There is always a church
With its natty spire
And the vestibule —
That’s where they whisper: 
Tzz-tzz . . . tzz-tzz . . . tzz-tzz. . . .
How many codes for a wireless whisper—
And corn flatter than it should be 
And those chits of leaves
Gadding with every wind? 
Small towns 
From Connecticut to Maine: 
Tzz-tzz . . .tzz-tzz . . . tzz-tzz. . .