#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
Although I have a car of class, A limousine, I also have a jenny ass I call Titine. And if I had in sober sense
That scathing word I used in scor… (Though half a century ago) Comes back to me this April morn, Like boomerang to work me woe; Comes back to me with bitter blame
Out of the wood my White Knight c… His eyes were bright with a bitter… As I clung to his stirrup leather… For I was only a dreaming lad, Yet oh, what a wonderful faith I…
He wrote a play; by day and night He strove with passion and delight… Yet knew, long ere the curtain dro… His drama was a sorry flop. In Parliament he sought a seat;
I looked down on a daisied lawn To where a host of tiny eyes Of snow and gold from velvet shone And made me think of starry skies. I looked up to the vasty night
I have a tiny piney wood; my trees are only fifty, Yet give me shade and solitude For they are thick and thrifty. And every day to me they fling
Till midnight her needle she plied To finish her pretty pink dress; “Oh, bless you, my darling,” she s… “I hope you will be a success.” As she entered the Oddfellow’s Ha…
What would I choose to see when I To this bright earth shall bid goo… When fades forever from my sight The world I’ve loved with long de… What would I pray to look on last…
Here in the Autumn of my days My life is mellowed in a haze. Unpleasant sights are none to clea… Discordant sounds I hardly hear. Infirmities like buffers soft
Alas! I see that thrushes three Are ravishing my old fig tree, In whose green shade I smoked my… And waited for the fruit to ripe; From green to purple softly swell
When Aunt Jane died we hunted rou… And money everywhere we found. How much I do not care to say, But no death duties will we pay, And Aunt Jane will be well conten…
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
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gles… “That’s whit I hate maist aboot f… Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm—ho… Weel, think o’ it, doon in the dun… A’ hell’s fairly belchin’ oot yonn…
“Give me my daily bread. It seems so odd, When all is done and said, This plea to God. To pray for cake might be
Behold! I’m old; my hair is white… My eighty years are in the offing, And sitting by the fire to—night I sip a grog to ease my coughing. It’s true I’m raucous as a rook,