#AmericanWriters
People expect old men to die, They do not really mourn old men. Old men are different. People loo… At them with eyes that wonder when… People watch with unshocked eyes;
The grackle’s voice is less than m… His heart is black, his eye is yel… He bullies more attractive birds With hoodlum deeds and vulgar word… And should a human interfere,
The hunter crouches in his blind ‘Neath camouflage of every kind And conjures up a quacking noise To lend allure to his decoys This grown-up man, with pluck and…
"Beep-beep. BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOB… You’ll find a banker at Bankers T… Advertisement in N.Y. Times When comes my second childhood,
Behold the hippopotamus! We laugh at how he looks to us, And yet in moments dank and grim, I wonder how we look to him. Peace, peace, thou hippopotamus!
Some people, and it doesn’t matter whether they are paupers or millionaires, Think that anything they have is the best in the world just because it is theirs. If they happen to own a ...
As I was going to St. Ives I met a man with seven lives; Seven lives, In seven sacks, Like seven beeves
The summer like a rajah dies, And every widowed tree Kindles for Congregationalist eye… An alien suttee.
I sit in an office at 244 Madison… And say to myself You have a resp… Why then do you fritter away your… If you have a sore throat you can… If you have a sore foot you can ge…
This is my dream, It is my own dream, I dreamt it. I dreamt that my hair was kempt. Then I dreamt that my true love u…
I’ve never seen an abominable snow… I’m hoping not to see one, I’m also hoping, if I do, That it will be a wee one.
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
Belinda lived in a little white ho… With a little black kitten and a l… And a little yellow dog and a litt… And a realio, trulio, little pet d… Now the name of the little black k…
This is a song to celebrate banks, Because they are full of money and… you hear is clinks and clanks, Or maybe a sound like the wind in… Which is the rustling of the thous…
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,