Being a father Is quite a bother. You are as free as air With time to spare, You’re a fiscal rocket With change in your pocket, And then one morn A child is born.
The hands of the clock were reaching high In an old midtown hotel; I name no name, but its sordid fame Is table talk in hell. I name no name, but hell’s own flame
Isabel met an enormous bear, Isabel, Isabel, didn’t care; The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous, The bear’s big mouth was cruel and cavernous. The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you, How
Foreigners are people somewhere else, Natives are people at home; If the place you’re at Is your habitat, You’re a foreigner, say in Rome. But the scales of Justice balance true, And tit leads
This one is entering her teens, Ripe for sentimental scenes, Has picked a gangling unripe male, Sees herself in bridal veil, Presses lips and tosses head, Declares she’s not too young to wed, Informs
OR The Child Is Father Of The Man, But Not For Quite A While So Thomas Edison Never drank his medicine; So Blackstone and Hoyle Refused cod-liver oil; So Sir Thomas Malory Never heard
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover? I wish to retire till the party’s over. Since three o’clock I’ve done my best To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I’ve left behind
Husbands are things that wives have to get used to putting up with. And with whom they breakfast with and sup with. They interfere with the discipline of nurseries, And forget anniversaries, And when
Behold the duck. It does not cluck. A cluck it lacks. It quacks. It is specially fond Of a puddle or pond. When it dines or sups, It bottoms ups.
One thing that literature would be greatly the better for Would be a more restricted employment by the authors of simile and Metaphor. Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts,