Photograph used for a story in the Oklahoma City Times newspaper. Caption: "Song Of The Oil Derrick I am a ribald jester, I have led a riotous life, Comrade of barrom and brothel, Witness of passion and strife; Tired of my roistering ways, I have turned me to the town Where mansions stand in dignified row, Tour statehouse looks proudly down. But I see that I am not welcome, I who have served men long - Sparing not strength or muscle, Chanting a prosperous song. City despoiler, you call me, Besmircher of beauty's fair name! That is enough to strike terror To even an oil derrick's frame. My masters are greedy, you say, Befouling your stathouse without, What of corrupt politicians within Who scheme and graft? I shout, With cursings and slanderous lies Your leaders defile its halls, Why so aghast when in rollocking mood I besmatter the outer walls? The loathsome aroma of gas Hurts your sensitive soul, I suppose, But the stench of the shacks by the river Has not reached your sensitive nose. Your sensitive nerves are ajangle With the racket and roar of my rig, But your ears have been deaf to the cry of a child In a home not fit for a pig. Sleepless you toss on your beds, Distrubed by my rat-a-tat-tat, A hard board on an earthern floor Has sufficed for the river brat. Along your ways the black boys roam To winnow your useless junk, And it's only a step from a childish quest to a theft and a jailhouse bunk. Ragged, half-fed and half-homeless, Each day I see them pass: The sight eludes your sensitive eyes They are gazing in the glass. This beauty you talk of might be real, Where the man who knocks at a door Is given a decent crust. Where every child, be black or white, Is granted his birthright of play, Where the wealth I dig from the generous earth No longer is squandred away. In such a world I might repent And wear a humbled look, Change my frame to a Gothic spire, My slag to a running brook. But the beauty's shrine at which you bow, Is a nice comfortable home, With you, of course, inside it, Resting serenely alone, While dragging past on hopeless feet, Weighed down by want or sin, Half the human race goes by, Despairing, looking in. A velvet lawn, for you, Kept beautifully trim and neat, Berudging a safe passageway To little children's feet, Hypocrities, fine phase mouthers, My pumps will make you hush! If this be your dream of beauty, Give me my honest slush. Yes, I am a grim-faced jokester And this is the cream of my jest, By the comrade of barroom and brothel You shelterd shrines shall be pressed. Clara Louis Langston, 1101 Northeast Fourteenth Street."
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Place Name coordinates. (May be approximate.)
