#AmericanWriters
Sure, deck your limbs in pants; Yours are the limbs, my sweeting. You look divine as you advance— Have you seen yourself retreating?
Being a father Is quite a bother. You are as free as air With time to spare, You’re a fiscal rocket
Higgledy piggledy, my black hen, She lays eggs for gentlemen. Gentlemen come every day To count what my black hen doth la… If perchance she lays too many,
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
One would be in less danger From the wiles of a stranger If one’s own kin and kith Were more fun to be with.
Oh, weep for Mr. and Mrs. Bryan! He was eaten by a lion; Following which, the lion’s liones… Up and swallowed Bryan’s Bryaness…
One thing that literature would be… Would be a more restricted employm… metaphor. Authors of all races, be they Gre… Can’t seem just to say that anythi…
Nothing makes me sicker than liquor and candy is too expandy
Beneath this slab John Brown is stowed. He watched the ads And not the road.
Adam Had’em
In fourteen hundred and ninety-two… Someone sailed the ocean blue. Somebody borrowed the fare in Spa… For a business trip on the boundin… And to prove to the people, by act…
In spite of her sniffle, Isabel’s chiffle. Some girls with a sniffle Would be weepy and tiffle; They would look awful,
The ant has made himself illustrio… Through constant industry industri… So what? Would you be calm and placid, If you were full of formic acid?
Purity Is obscurity.
So Thomas Edison Never drank his medicine; So Blackstone and Hoyle Refused cod-liver oil; So Sir Thomas Malory