#AmericanWriters
Lady in the blue kimono, you that… One may see you gazing, gazing gaz… Idly looking out your window from… Are you convalescent, lady? Are y… Ever gazing, as you hang there on…
Writers of baseball, attention! When you’re again on the job– When, in your rage for invention, You with the language play hob– Most of your dope we will pardon,
I used to think that this environ– Ment talk was all a lot of guff; Place mattered not with Keats and… Stuff. If I have thoughts that need disc…
Tell me not, in doctored numbers, Life is but a name for work! For the labour that encumbers Me I wish that I could shirk. Life is phony! Life is rotten!
“C’est distingue,” says Madame La… ’Tis a fabric of subtle distinctio… For street wear it is superb. The chic of the Rue de la Paix— The style of Fifth Avenue—
Up goes the price of our bread— Up goes the cost of our caking! People must ever be fed; Bakers must ever be baking. So, though our nerves may be quaki…
Many a jest that refuses to die Bobs up again as the seasons appea… Deathless it hits us again in the… Changeless and dull as the calenda… Musty and mouldy and yellow and se…
Although I hate A profiteer With unabat– Ed loathing; Though I detest
("Sir: For the first time in twenty-three years 'Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations’ has been revised and enlarged, and under a separate cover we are sending you a copy of the new edition. ...
Never mind the slippery wet street… The tire with a thousand claws wil… Stop as quickly as you will— Those thousand claws grip the road… Turn as sharply as you will—
How narrow his vision, how cribbed… How prejudiced all of his views! How hard is the shell of his bigot… How difficult he to excuse! His face should be slapped and his…
Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said– And your tone was earnest, very– You would never deck your head With this vernal millinery. Myrt, to mince no words, you lied;
When the Festal Board, as the pap… Groans 'neath the weight of a lot… At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeun… (As a bard tri-lingual I’m rather… At breakfast, then, if I may repe…
Horace: Book I, Ode 19 “Mater sæva Cupidinum” Venus, the cruel mother of The Cupids (symbolising Love), Bids me to muse upon and sigh
“BEE” PALMER has taken the raw human—all too human—stuff of the underworld, with its sighs of sadness and regret, its mad merriment, its swift blaze of passion, its turbulent dances, it...