#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
I never kill a fly because I think that what we have of laws To regulate and civilize Our daily life —we owe to flies. Apropos, I’ll tell you of Choo, t…
Her baby was so full of glee, And through the day It laughed and babbled on her knee In happy play. It pulled her hair all out of curl
Two blind men met. Said one: “Thi… Has been a blackout from my birth. Through darkness I have groped my… Forlorn, unknowing night from day. But you —though War destroyed you…
I wonder if successful men Are always happy? And do they sing with gusto when Springtime is sappy? Although I am of snow—white hair
Our cowman, old Ed, hadn’t much i… And lots of folks though him a wit… But he wasn’t a fool, for he alway… And his sole recreation was whittl… When I’d spill him my woes (ifant…
I met an ancient man who mushed With Peary to the Pole. Said I, “In all that land so hush… What most inspired your soul?” He looked at me with bleary eye,
I’ve been sittin’ starin’, starin’… And tryin’ to convince meself it’s… (Look out there, lad! That sniper… ’E’ll be layin’ of you out the sam… Jim as lies there in the dug—out w…
Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips, And the mouth so mocking gay, A wanton you to the finger—tips, Who break men’s hearts in play; A thing of dust I have striven fo…
Said he: "You saw the Master clea… By Rushy Pond alone he sat, Serene and silent as a seer, in tweedy coat and seedy hat. you tell me you did not intrude,
“You’re bloody right —I was a Red… The Man from Cook’s morosely said… And if our chaps had won the War Today I’d be the Governor Of all Madrid, and rule with prid…
You’ve heard of Julot the apache,… Montmartre was their hunting—groun… A little chap just like a boy, wit… Yet there was nothing juvenile in… From head to heel as tough as stee…
Would it be loss or gain To hapless human—kind If we could feel no pain Of body or of mind? Would it be for our good
Gold! We leapt from our benches.… Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, f… Fearless, unfound, unfitted, far f… Heard we the clarion summons, foll… Men from the sands of the Sunland…
The chapel looms against the sky, Above the vine—clad shelves, And as the peasants pass it by They cross themselves. But I alone, I grieve to state,
While I make rhymes my brother Jo… Makes shiny shoes which dames try… And finding to their fit and stanc… They buy and wear with elegance; But mine is quite another tale,—