The Middle par Ogden Nash When I remember bygone days I think how evening follows morn; So many I loved were not yet dead So many I love were not yet born.
The Octopus par Ogden Nash 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.
The Grackle par Ogden Nash The grackle’s voice is less than m His heart is black, his eye is yel He bullies more attractive birds With hoodlum deeds and vulgar word And should a human interfere,
The Rhinoceros par Ogden Nash The rhino is a homely beast, For human eyes he’s not a feast. Farwell, farewell, you old rhinoce I’ll stare at something less prepo
Very Like a Whale par Ogden Nash 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
A Drink With Something in It par Ogden Nash There is something about a Martin A tingle remarkably pleasant; A yellow, a mellow Martini; I wish I had one at present. There is something about a Martin
Lather as You Go par Ogden Nash Beneath this slab John Brown is stowed. He watched the ads And not the road.
Soliloquy in Circles par Ogden Nash Being a father Is quite a bother. You are as free as air With time to spare, You’re a fiscal rocket
The Shrimp par Ogden Nash A shrimp who sought his lady shrim Could catch no glimpse Not even a glimp. At times, translucence Is rather a nuisance.
