Ocean, Mr., Mrs. Blink

Noise near beaches,

‘Mid July.

Scampering of thousands of humans who work in factories and stores; and homes.

Ocean near the scampering citizens and citizenesses.

Citizens go to ocean;

Citizenesses scream coyly.

Hey, ocean, how far you go.

Mr. Blink is on a big wave.

The fat legs of Mrs. Blink are pretty beneath the green, heavy ocean waves; such a place for Mrs. Blink’s fat, old legs.

Brooklyn near, hot Sunday afternoon with trolley-cars going all around and all around; in hot dust, hot dust, going up to Brooklyn’s hot sky, July, hot sky.

Mr. Blink is on a big, new wave.

Mrs. Blink is getting cold.

She is on the beach now.

Mrs. Blink, mother of three, is walking on the beach now.

Mrs. Blink is not so graceful.

Mrs. Blink’s first is called Irving.

Mrs. Blink thinks of late supper.

Mr. Blink is enjoying a big, new wave, near Brooklyn.

Mr. Blink and Mrs. Blink are different.

So are two waves.

Mrs. Blink is a thinking lady.

She thinks all the time.

Her second is called Arthur.

Her third is called Ethel.

Such experience has had Mrs. Blink, housewife of Brooklyn, wife of a dry-goods man of Brooklyn.

Mrs. Blink doesn’t know her Arthur is going to die soon.

Mrs. Blink doesn’t know everything.

Look at the fat legs of Mrs. Blink in the sun.

Look at the hair on Mrs. Blink’s fat legs, hair on Mrs. Blink’s fat legs in the sun.

Mrs. Blink loves her Irving.

Irving will be a lawyer.

Irving is now at a party.

He likes Irma.

Those waves; that ocean.

That ocean, that ocean.

Mrs. Blink’s ocean.

Mrs. Blink and Mr. Blink are by and in the great big, blue, green ocean, near Brooklyn.