Tell me, O Octopus, I begs
Is those things arms, or is they l
I marvel at thee, Octopus;
If I were thou, I’d call me Us.

Being a father
Is quite a bother.
You are as free as air
With time to spare,
You’re a fiscal rocket

I don’t mind eels
Except as meals.
And the way they feels.

Senescence begins
And middle age ends
The day your descendents
Outnumber your friends.

This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love u

Bound to your bookseller, leap to
Deluge your dealer with bakshish a
Lean on the counter and never say
Wodehouse and Wooster are with us
Flourish the fish-slice, your butt

Celery, raw
Develops the jaw,
But celery, stewed,
Is more quietly chewed.

In spite of her sniffle,
Isabel’s chiffle.
Some girls with a sniffle
Would be weepy and tiffle;
They would look awful,

How pleasant to sit on the beach,
On the beach, on the sand, in the
With ocean galore within reach,
And nothing at all to be done!
No letters to answer,

A shrimp who sought his lady shrim
Could catch no glimpse
Not even a glimp.
At times, translucence
Is rather a nuisance.