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

As I was going to St. Ives
I met a man with seven lives;
Seven lives,
In seven sacks,
Like seven beeves

I sit in the dusk. I am all alone
Enter a child and an ice-cream con
A parent is easily beguiled
By sight of this coniferous child.
The friendly embers warmer gleam,

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

In fourteen hundred and ninety-two
Someone sailed the ocean blue.
Somebody borrowed the fare in Spa
For a business trip on the boundin
And to prove to the people, by act

First a little
Then a lottle

Cuckoos lead Bohemian lives,
They fail as husbands and as wives
Therefore they cynically disparage
Everybody else’s marriage.

O all ye exorcizers come and exorc

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

Oh, “rorty” was a mid-Victorian w
Which meant “fine, splendid, jolly
And often to me it has reoccurred
In moments melancholy.
For instance, children, I think i