#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
On silver sand where ripples curle… I counted sea—gulls seven; Shy, secret screened from all the… And innocent as heaven. They did not of my nearness know,
A ray of sun strayed softly round, For something to caress, Until a resting place it found Of joy and thankfulness; 'Twas Minette, our Angora cat,
Zut! it’s two o’clock. See! the lights are jumping. Finish up your bock, Time we all were humping. Waiters stack the chairs,
The porter in the Pullman car Was charming, as they sometimes ar… He scanned my baggage tags: “Are… The man who wrote of Lady Lou?” When I said “yes” he made a fuss…
I’ve often wondered why Old chaps who choose to die In evil passes, Before themselves they slay, Invariably they
There was Claw—fingered Kitty and… When unto them in the Long, Long… Bearing his prize of a black fox p… His cheeks were blanched as the fl… Deep in their dark, sin—calcined p…
Clorinda met me on the way As I came from the train; Her face was anything but gay, In fact, suggested pain. “Oh hubby, hubby dear!” she cried,
There’s a cry from out the lonelin… Do you hear it, do you fear it, yo… You’re a—sobbing in your sleep, de… Do you hear the Little Voices all… All a—begging me to leave you. Da…
Father drank himself to death,— Quite enjoyed it. Urged to draw a sober breath He’d avoid it. ‘Save your sympathy,’ said Dad;
The lady at the corner wicket Sold me a stamp, I stooped to lic… And on the envelope to stick it; A spinster lacking girlish grace, Yet sweetly sensitive, her face
I do not swear because I am A sweet and sober guy; I cannot vent a single damn However hard I try. And in viruperative way,
I never killed a bear because I always thought them critters was So kindo’ cute; Though round my shack they often c… I’d raise my rifle and take aim,
They dumped it on the lonely road, Then like a streak they sped; And as along the way I strode I thought that it was dead: And then I saw that yelping pup
“Tell Annie I’ll be home in time To help her with her Christmas—tr… That’s what he wrote, and hark! th… Of Christmas bells, and where is… And how the house is dark and sad,
What are you doing here, Tom Thor… Where the wind has the cut of a na… Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep… You that’s a lord’s own son, Tom… Go home, go home to your clubs, T…