#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
Can you recall, dear comrade, when… And we sang the old, old Earth—so… When we drank and fought and luste… Along the road to Anywhere, the w… Along the road to Anywhere, when…
When a man gits on his uppers in a… An’ he ain’t got nothin’ comin’ an… An’ he’s in a fix for lodgin’ an’… An’ you’d fancy he’d been boozin’,… When he’s feelin’ sneakin’ sorry a…
Past ash cans and alley cats, Fetid. overflowing gutters, Leprous lines of rancid flats Where the frowsy linen flutters; With a rattle and a jar,
Though Virtue hurt you Vice is ni… Aye, Parson says it’s wrong, Yet for my pleasing I’ll suffice With Women, Wine and Song. But though it be with jocund glee
I told a truth, a tragic truth That tore the sullen sky; A million shuddered at my sooth And anarchist was I. Red righteousness was in my word
She was a Philistine spick and sp… He was a bold Bohemian. She had the mode, and the last at… He had a cape and a brigand hat. She was so riant and chic and trim…
There once was a Square, such a s… And he loved a trim Triangle; But she was a flirt and around her… Vainly she made him dangle. Oh he wanted to wed and he had no…
She phoned them when the Round wa… ‘How is my Joe?’ they heard her s… They answered: 'Gee! He’s going g… Your guy’s Okay.' She phoned them when the Round wa…
Said Will: “I’ll stay and till th… Said Jack: “I’ll sail the sea.” So one went forth kit—bag in hand, The other ploughed the lea. They met again at Christmas—tide,
I Laugh at Life: its antics make… Where only foolish fellows take th… I laugh at pomp and vanity, at ric… At social inanity, at swager, swan… At poets, pastry—cooks and kings,…
Let us have birthdays every day, (I had the thought while I was sh… Because a birthday should be gay, And full of grace and good behavin… We can’t have cakes and candles br…
I am a mild man, you’ll agree, But red my rage is, When folks who borrow books from m… Turn down their pages. Or when a chap a book I lend,
‘A man should write to please hims… He proudly said. Well, see his poems on the shelf, Dusty, unread. When he came to my shop each day,
Marie Antoinette They told to Marie Antoinette: “The beggers at your gate Have eyes too sad for tears to wet… And for your pity wait.”
Great Grandfather was ninety—nine And so it was our one dread, That though his health was superfi… He’d fail to make the hundred. Though he was not a rolling stone