#AmericanWriters
As Death was a-riding out one day… Across Mount Carmel he took his w… Where he met a mendicant monk, Some three or four quarters drunk, With a holy leer and a pious grin,
We heard a song-bird trilling 'T was but a night ago. Such rapture he was rilling As only we could know. This morning he is flinging
The Devil stood before the gate Of Heaven. He had a single mate: Behind him, in his shadow, slunk Clay Sheets in a perspiring funk. ‘Saint Peter, see this season tic…
God dreamed-the suns sprang flamin… And sailing worlds with many a ven… He woke-His smile alone illumined…
You may say, if you please, Johnn… Are crazy to marry your dukes and… But I’ve heard that the maids of… Greet bachelor lords with a favori… Nay, titles, ‘tis said in defense…
What! photograph in colors? 'Tis… And he who dreams it is not overwi… If colors are vibration they but s… And have no being. But if Tyndall… Why, come, then-photograph my lady…
I dreamed that Gabriel took his h… On Resurrection’s fateful morn, And lighting upon Laurel Hill Blew long, blew loud, blew high an… The houses compassing the ground
Megaceph, chosen to serve the Sta… In the halls of legislative debate… One day with his credentials came To the capitol’s door and announce… The doorkeeper looked, with a comi…
Upon this quarter-eagle’s leveled… The Lord’s Prayer, legibly inscri… 'Our Father which’-the pronoun th… And shows the scribe to have addre… 'Which art in Heaven’-an error th…
The pig is taught by sermons and e… To think the God of Swine has sno… Judibras.
The lily cranks, the lily cranks, The loppy, loony lasses! They multiply in rising ranks To execute their solemn pranks, They moon along in masses.
'T was a maiden lady (the newspape… Pious and prim and a bit gone-gray… She slept like an angel, holy and… Till ten o’ the clock in the shank… (When men and other wild animals p…
A rat who’d gorged a box of bane And suffered an internal pain, Came from his hole to die (the lab… Required it if the rat were able) And found outside his habitat
The flabby wine-skin of his brain Yields to some pathologic strain, And voids from its unstored abysm The driblet of an aphorism.
Professor dear, I think it queer That all these good religions ('Twixt you and me, some two or th… Are schemes for plucking pigeons) I mean 'tis strange that every cha…