Toward a better world I contribut
I eat the squab, lest it become a
I objurgate the centipede,
A bug we do not really need.
At sleepy-time he beats a path
Straight to the bedroom or the bat
You always wallop where he’s not,
The pig, if I am not mistaken;
Supplies us sausage, ham, and baco
Let others say his heart is big—
I call it stupid of the pig.
The truth I do not stretch or sho
When I state that the dog is full
I’ve also found, by actual test,
A wet dog is the lovingest.
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
The summer like a rajah dies,
And every widowed tree
Kindles for Congregationalist eye
An alien suttee.
Foreigners are people somewhere el
Natives are people at home;
If the place you’re at
Is your habitat,
You’re a foreigner, say in Rome.
One thing that literature would be
Would be a more restricted employm
Authors of all races, be they Gre
Can’t seem just to say that anythi
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
Cuckoos lead Bohemian lives,
They fail as husbands and as wives
Therefore they cynically disparage
Everybody else’s marriage.