#AmericanWriters
Some singers sing of ladies’ eyes, And some of ladies lips, Refined ones praise their ladylike… And course ones hymn their hips. The Oxford Book of English Verse
Being a father Is quite a bother. You are as free as air With time to spare, You’re a fiscal rocket
Higgledy piggledy, my black hen, She lays eggs for gentlemen. Gentlemen come every day To count what my black hen doth la… If perchance she lays too many,
I have a bone to pick with fate, Come here and tell me girly, Do you think my mind is maturing l… Or simply rotting early.
There is a knocking in the skull, An endless silent shout Of something beating on a wall, And crying, “Let me out!” That solitary prisoner
May I join you in the doghouse, R… I wish to retire till the party’s… Since three o’clock I’ve done my… To entertain each tiny guest; My conscience now I’ve left behin…
“Beep-beep. BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOB… You’ll find a banker at Bankers T… Advertisement in N.Y. Times When comes my second childhood,
This one is entering her teens, Ripe for sentimental scenes, Has picked a gangling unripe male, Sees herself in a bridal veil, Presses lips and tosses head,
I didn’t go to church today, I trust the Lord to understand. The surf was swirling blue and whi… The children swirling on the sand. He knows, He knows how brief my s…
In Baltimore there lived a boy. He wasn’t anybody’s joy. Although his name was Jabez Dawes… His character was full of flaws. In school he never led his classes…
There was a young belle of Natche… Whose garments were always in patc… When comment arose On the state of her clothes, She drawled, When Ah itchez, Ah…
They tell me that euphoria is the… well, today I feel euphorian, Today I have the agility of a Gre… Victorian. Yes, today I may even go forth wi…
The cow is of bovine ilk; One end is moo, the other is milk.
From whence arrived the praying ma… From outer space, or lost Atlanti… glimpse the grin, green metal mug at masks the pseudo-saintly bug, Orthopterous, also carnivorous,
Master I may be, But not of my fate. Now come the kisses, too many too… Tell me, O Parcae, For fain would I know,