But the snobs are ever with us, snobs of art, of place, of pelf. And, reading this, I rather think I might be one myself. - C. J. Dennis

To mock the tree-lined highways of our dreaming, Winding to pleasant plains and sunlit hills,
Loud-speakers yet may blare 'mid billboards screaming To hymn the praise of someone’s priceless pills.

I sometimes think stone is too precious truly, Bronze far too permanent for human clods
Whom men rush in to celebrate unduly: Immortal stuff is for immortal gods
Carved by great artists. Let the celebration Of men be in such stuff as may be pulped;
Reserve the rock for glorious inspiration: Venus to pose, to sculpt.

Women is strange. You take my tip; I’m wise. I know enough to know I'll never know
The ’uman female mind ...