neat, handsome McClellan, Ex-railroad president too, but a better railroad; The fortunate youth, the highly-modern boy-wonder, The snapping-eyed, brisk banner-salesman of war With all the salesman’s gifts and the salesman’s ego; Great organizer, with that magnetic spark That pulls the heart from the crowd⁠—and all of it spoiled By the Napoleon-complex that haunts such men. There never has been a young banner-salesman yet That did not dream of a certain little cocked-hat And feel it fit. McClellan felt that it fitted. —After a year and a day, the auditors come, Dry auditors, going over the books of the company, Sad auditors, with groups of red and black figures That are not moved by a dream of precious cocked hats. And after the auditors go, the board of directors, Decides, with a sigh, to do without banner-salesmen.⁠— It is safer to dream of a rusty Lincoln stovepipe. That dream has more patience in it. And yet, years later, Meeting the banner-salesman in some cheap street With the faded clippings of old success in his pocket, One cannot help feeling sorry for the cocked hat