Lord Let Me Live
Lord, let me live, that more and more Your wonder world I may adore; With every dawn to grow and grow Alive to graciousness aglow; And every eve in beauty see Reason for rhapsody.
Sympathy
My Muse is simple, yet it’s nice To think you don’t need to think twice On words I write. I reckon I’ve a common touch And if you say I cuss too much I
Old Ed
Our cowman, old Ed, hadn’t much in his head, And lots of folks though him a witling; But he wasn’t a fool, for he always kept cool, And his sole recreation was whittling. When
Immortality
Full well I trow that when I die Down drops the curtain; Another show is all my eye And Betty Martin. I know the score, and with a smile Of rueful rating, I reckon
Song Of The Sardine
A fat man sat in an orchestra stall and his cheeks were wet with tears, As he gazed at the primadonna tall, whom he hadn’t seen in years. “Oh don’t you remember” he murmured
Moon Song
A child saw in the morning skies The dissipated-looking moon, And opened wide her big blue eyes, And cried: “Look, look, my lost balloon!” And clapped her rosy hands with glee: “Quick, mother! Bring
Rhyme Builder
I envy not those gay galoots Who count on dying in their boots; For that, to tell the sober truth Sould be the privilege of youth; But aged bones are better sped To heaven
Babette
My Lady is dancing so lightly, The belle of the Embassy Ball; I lied as I kissed her politely, And hurried away from it all. I’m taxiing up to Montmartre, With never a pang
Bank Robber
I much admire, I must admit, The man who robs a Bank; It takes a lot of guts and grit, For lack of which I thank The gods: a chap ‘twould make of me
I Have Some Friends
I have some friends, some worthy friends, And worthy friends are rare: These carpet slippers on my feet, That padded leather chair; This old and shabby dressing-gown, So well the worse of wear. I
The Battle
Dames should be doomed to dungeons Who masticate raw onions. She was the cuddly kind of Miss A man can love to death; But when I sought to steal a kiss I wilted from
White-Collar Spaniard
We have no heart for civil strife, Our burdens we prefer to bear; We long to live a peaceful life And claim of happiness our share. If only to be clothed and fed And
Roulette
I’ll wait until my money’s gone Before I take the sleeping pills; Then when they find me in the dawn, Remote from earthly ails and ills They’ll say: “She’s broke, the foreign bitch!” And
Farewell To Verse
In youth when oft my muse was dumb, My fancy nighly dead, To make my inspiration come I stood upon my head; And thus I let the blood down flow Into my cerebellum, And
Winding Wool
She’d bring to me a skein of wool And beg me to hold out my hands; So on my pipe I cease to pull And watch her twine the shining strands Into a ball