﻿The king fell ill from too much work 
And the slaves from fooling around; 
And business, tho it was quite berserk, 
Was fund-Amen-tally sound. 
 
The “nuts” in all the asylums had 
Zoroaster beat by a mile; 
And business, tho it was mostly bad, 
Did twist her face in a smile. 

“A breakfast saved is a breakfast earned” 
Is the height of reason attained— 
And “nothing is lost in the things thus spurned”, 
But tell me, what have you gained? 
 
A breakfast lost can ne’er be found 
And it grieves us boobs very sore; 
And business fundamentally sound 
Is rotten clear to the core 

Didn’t take Henry Ford long to find out a Chinaman can build a Ford cheaper than Detroit’s dynamic workingmen can; did it? 
It’s all in the rice—Detroit’s master mechanics should try a pound or two and see if it wouldn’t improve their approach. 
How long will it take Detroit’s workers to find out they don’t have to “pay” Henry so many millions per year—let the Chinaman do it? 
The difference between cost and price is the difference which permits Henry to throw “a little work” in front of our yellow fellow workers—which means, if Chinese costs are high, the surplus U. S. price makes the whole world kin. 
I ‘spose we’ll be suckers all our lives. (Henry’s earning power is now 500 times as big as Herbert Hoover’s.) 
Potatoes, too, U. S. No. 1 Burbank, 10 lbs. for 11 cents. Ye gods! Almost three times as much as farmer gets for wheat. 
Henry is putting out a new car for March exihibtion; a four, first an eight, later—both on same chassis—and Henry hastens to assure the public the price will be just a trifle more than nothing, and that he has a conscience. He also serves notice on the sources of raw materials that any jumps in their figures constitute tresonable activity and grave danger for our republic in this hour of greatest gloom. I forget all he did say but I know the sentiments passed muster before my cruel eye. 
The mere fact that other automobile makers were working substantial forces had no bearing on Henry’s change of heart—his motives are wholly pure, uh, huh . . . 

We have here Manhattan Beach, Calif and yonder El Segundo, John D. Standard-Oil’s private properties and refineries. That gigantic concern is now employing about 300 men: and desperate housewives, bereft of their senses and breakfasts, room the beach drives denouncing Hoover, the Oil Business and Pacific Ocean (foreign oil) —I can’t see the logic—lest it be the brains of our ill-fated country are straining every nerve and muscle to make things still more miserable. 

Venice knows her oil. The derricks are stuck up just like that (hold up your right hand). Now spread your fingers—just like that. Every derrick has a different owner—Ohio, Todd to Mohawk—rugged idividualism rampant—each trying to pump the other dry. 
I s’pose John D. gets the oil. Saw one man that looked like a workingman—saw him twice—and I thought those derricks pretty much machinery for one man to handle. Did not count the derricks because it was gaining but will say they stretch for miles from Plaza Del Rey Hills to the canals—so thick, a rough estimate is impossible. (Of course, there were more than one man—but they were a scarce article; and me wanting match, too.) (Boulevard hasn’t an inch to spare). 
Passed L. A. sewage disposal properties yesterday. Picnics and camping prohibited within 500 ft. of the piers. Saw sixty seagulls holding the fort there which indicates L. A. is not putting out with either hand. (Frisco ferry boats always have an escort of 483 gulls, where the liberal Oaklanders toss them bread and pop-corn). 
Also saw some sixty smaller birds scamper in and out with waves and dig something front sand—sewage hath no charms for them. 
Square-rigger, four-masted, laying off Santa Monica, for no apparent reason—thought I saw another four-master, minus masts, laying hard by—my eyes ain’t as good as they were when I was new . . . 
Bait and tackle to the starboard and Scotch Baker (first one) to the port—airplanes overhead riding herd on hoboes lest they stray or be kidnapped.—No danger: the Los Angeles cops meet all trains, like the Toonerville Trolley, (don’t have to walk in) and haul them to the village, and in front of the lady-magistrate. Her honor murmurs ‘twenty day’s suspended sentence” and the orderly process of law and order have been maintained—some day Los will grow up. Don’t try any fast ones on “her honer”; nature hath gifted her with a wit that is surprising so far south of Sacramento. Santa Monica is an industrial city (minus industries) so destined to remain in view of the encroachment upon her sanctities by Beverly Hills (minus hills). It is often referred to as one of the Bay Cities (minus bay). 
All in all Santa Monica believes in “Live and Let Live”—not a bad idea and in this connection let me say: many as autoist would pick up a footsore pilgrim were it not for the honest to goodness fear; still others refuse to pick up anybody because of a guilty conscience—they take, the position that: “if there is any murdering to be done, they want to do it themselves” (instead of having it done to and for them)—not a bad idea, all told. 
Beverly Hills: 
If Beverly Hills are hills, a pancake is a ravine. Further than that the defiant sayeth not, out of due respect for the wing-sore, fellow traveler, Will Rogers. 

Anticipation: 
“What was the most remarkable thing you saw in California, Slim?” 
The number of dogs I saw everywhere and their resonant barking. 
But you mustn’t get mad if dogs bark at you. They’re only working up an appetite—for California loves its dogs dearly and feeds them accordingly. Many of the dogs no doubt imagine themselves Rudy Vallees’ of dogdom, and are not averse to crooning a lay or so to strangers. 
In s. Francisco I went to a house for water. Fording the backwater of the tide, I arrived at the house from an unexpected angle and there they were—slaughtered hounds of all discriptions (six or seven) in a pile and four live ones coming at me like the hounds of hell—I laughed them off. This dog fancier’s love had been great but it finally broke down under Hoover’s administration and the merciful thing to do was to cut their melodious windpipe. I am not trying to make it appear those seven dogs had to give up their lives to provide meats for the family and bones for the surviving dogs, indeed I am not—because I do not know, and knowledge is a great thing—but I do know that when a aged tramp cooks up a puppy ´the newspapers spill a bucket of tears and offer most dire vengeance to that, or those scoundrels, that shanghaied Reginald’s playmate. Quite out of proportion to the racket raised when a cast was stewed up in Glendale, Cal.—a fine fat cat it was too; fattened at public expense—the facts are before you but let them not influence you to think California is stingy or poor—she is very liberal. These occurrences are the result of L. A. cops permitting you not to stop long enough (in Glendale) to lean on the everpresent generosity and strengthen the inner man. 
The cat is mourned only by hoboes. 

Yon dog is better off than I, 
cannot tell a lie — 
Yon dog is better off than I, 
cannot tell you why. 

Objectives vary: 
Parasites crave endless chains. 
Workers want chainless ends. 
I’m reminded. California’s beautiful boulevards were built by disappointed prospectors dressed in eighteen pound Oregon boots—Rolph’s fire-tail, convict camps are a feint echo of the good old days when Los Angeles laid out her drives. 
(The choice of a tampping-up” or trip to the Sierra “snow line” makes not the campless convict or criminal). Rolph is criticised merely for giving rascals an opportunity to ply their trade, that of railroading innocent because of their poverty.—Los Angeles is instrumental in bringing this condition about and Los Angeles, in its bigoted intolerance, is instrumental in the continued incarceration of the innocent Mooney and Billings—today Rolph lays a corner stone for a new prison in San Quentin—his time could be better occupied by laying a wreath on the brow of dead justice. 
I do claim Rolph, as well as Moone and Billings, is a victim of sour circumstances
