He owned a mill, he owned a mine,
He owned a hundred miles of pine,
He owned a horseless carriage fine,
He owned as well a coach and four;
He owned a house, he owned a lot,
He owned a yawl, he owned a yacht;
Could Lake Superior be bought,
He'd owned that, too, from shore to shore.
He owned a mansion great and brown,
He owned at night a couch of down;
He owned a street, he owned a town,
In politics he owned a state.
He owned a sumptuous palace car;
He owned a railroad stretching far;
He owned a ship from keel to spar,
He owned them both and owned the freight.
And yet he lived a life alone
Because one thing he did not own;
And all his cash was seed was sown
Upon a field of arid salt.
He had no popularity
Because he had not learned to see
That what he lacked was this, that he
Had never owned a fault.
This life would be one grand, sweet song
If other folks would say they're wrong.