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

He who is ridden by a conscience
Worries about a lot of nonscience;
He without benefit of scruples
His fun and income soon quadruples

Adam
Had’em

The hunter crouches in his blind
‘Neath camouflage of every kind
And conjures up a quacking noise
To lend allure to his decoys
This grown-up man, with pluck and

Geniuses of countless nations
Have told their love for generatio
Till all their memorable phrases
Are common as goldenrod or daisies
Their girls have glimmered like th

One thing that literature would be
Would be a more restricted employm
metaphor.
Authors of all races, be they Gre
Can’t seem just to say that anythi

I find it very difficult to enthus
Over the current news.
Just when you think that at least
And that is why I do not like the

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

“Beep-beep.
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When comes my second childhood,

I’ve never seen an abominable snow
I’m hoping not to see one,
I’m also hoping, if I do,
That it will be a wee one.