Poetry quotes

Who would Brennan bear, Or shut up under Eason’s worst offense, But for the dread of dropping all that dough, Of losing all those togs, deprived of which No guy is really swell!—Yes, I’ll keep still.

Thus money does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native Bronix disposition Is stifled by a bunch of filthy luc; And ravings of my own fantastic sort Are all unheard, though my long silence does Disgrace the name of Heine.

It’s not a bad job, being nursemaid to you And most of my duties I cheerfully do, But I’ll certainly welcome relief from the task Of answering all of the questions you ask.

If I grow old before my day, If, in a night, my hair turns gray, ’Twill be from answering when you say “What for?”

If I have softening of the brain, If I’m adjudged unsound, insane, ’Twill be from trying to explain “What for?”

My rhyming Dic’s a hit with me; It really is a gem, Containing all the words there be And all the rhymes for them.

But what my book neglects to tell, The thing my book leaves out, Is whattheell and whotheell To write my rhymes about.

My eyes are very misty As I pen these lines to Christy; O, my heart is full of heaviness today. May the flowers ne’er wither, Matty, On your grave at Cincinnati Which you’ve chosen for your final fadeaway.

He stayed with us nearly a fortnight And carried a grouch all the while, Nor promise nor present could make him look pleasant; He hadn’t the power to smile.

He cried when he couldn’t have something; He cried just as hard when he could;

Kind words by the earful but made him more tearful, And scoldings did just as much good.

I wouldn’t have to rack my brain Or lie awake all night in vain Pursuit of brand new jokes; Nor fear my lines were heard with groans Of pain and sympathetic moans From sympathetic folks.

I’d merely have to make a face, Just twist a feature out of place, And be the soul of wit;

Or bark, and then pretend to bite, And, from the screams of wild delight, Be sure I’d made a hit.

Since he began to talk and sing, I’ve learned one interesting thing— The value of a verb is small; In fact, it has no worth at all.

Why waste the breath required to say, “While toddling through the park today, I saw a bird up in a tree,” When “Twee, pahk, birt,” does splendidly?

Why should one say, “Please pass the bread,” When “Ba-ba me” is easier said? And why “I’m starved. Have supper quick,” When “lunch!” yelled loudly, does the trick?

Spring, you are welcome, for you are the friend of Fathers of all little girlies and chaps.

Spring, you are welcome, for you mean the end of Bundling them up in their cold-weather wraps.

Breathes there a parent of masculine gender, One whose young hopeful is seven or less, Who never has cursed the designer and vender Of juvenile-out-of-doors-winter-time dress?

Maybe you have for your very own A piece of pie or an ice cream cone; If that’s your amusement, why end it quick?

Dream-food can’t possibly make you sick.

Orders are orders and I’m afraid It’s trouble for me if they’re disobeyed. But I’ll bet if the boss could see you, son, She’d put off the duty, as I have done.

Or is she herself the one And only real attraction? Has your little heart begun To get that sort of action? Better wait a few years, son.

“Myself!” It means that you don’t care To have me lift you in your chair;

That if I do, you’ll rage and tear.

“Deep affection,” I might reply; What would it profit if I did? I might answer: “The price to buy Clothes and edibles for you, kid.” You would repeat, insistently: “Daddy, what have you got for me?”

Isn’t my Self enough for you? Doesn’t my Presence satisfy?

No, that spelling would never do; You want Presents, a new supply, When you inquire so eagerly: “Daddy, what have you got for me?”

Perhaps four seconds after He first got on his train, I see him getting off once more. He steps or falls onto the floor And says, “I’m home again.”

I don’t know what they pay him, Nor where the office is.

The nature of the boy’s posish I’ve never learned—but how I wish I had that job of his!

Mere creatures of my youngster’s brain, Whose coming he’ll await in vain. And yet to him they’re very real. They own a big black auto’bile. They work downtown, and they’ll arrive Out here at one-two-three-four-five.

The Heckuses are four all told.

There’s Mrs. H. who’s very old, And Baby Heckus, and a lad Named Tom, and Bill, the Heckus dad. Beyond this point I can’t describe The fascinating Heckus tribe. I can but wonder how he came To think of such a lovely name.

I wonder what your thought will be And what you’ll say and do, sir, When you come home again and see What Daddy’s got for you, sir.

I wonder if you’ll like it, boy, Or turn away disgusted (You’ve often scorned a nice, new toy For one that’s old and busted.)

I wonder if you’ll laugh, or cry And run in fright to mother, Or just act bored to death, when I Show you your brand new brother.

I’m one of the number of ones Who’ll vote for him next time he runs

And he’ll win by a length If he polls the full strength Of the seemingly endless young Dunnes.

He works, but he works with a smile, For his Overland’s earned its pile, But I’ll bet the cigars They’d have sold some more cars If they’d advertised once in a while.

Most people who need it can owe it To Dave, if they swear they won’t blow it, And I’m sure you can trust His bank not to bust,

For he won’t lend a dime to a poet.

A. Linick won’t have to rap twice When he’s ready to try Paradise, For St. Peter knows He will give ’em good shows And charge ’em a moderate price.

Remember the Fourth of July, When Dempsey closed Jessica’s eye? Well, I lost on the bout, But I met a good scout. Ad Thatcher’s a regular guy.

He’s got us all skinned by a block.

We have to go down in the sock For tickets to see Mayilynn and Marie, While they pay their dough to see Doc.

For them and her, we take his word; ’Twere imbecile to flout him.

Hell has no fury like this bird When you presume to doubt him!

When Davey, my kid, takes a tumble And gets an abrasion or two, If you dare sympathize, he coolly replies: “It’s what I was trying to do.”

That’s Dave’s philosophical system, And I think I will follow it, too;

When I foozle and err, I will boldly aver It’s what I was trying to do.

So, ye who don’t like these two pages, Don’t think I’ll be angry with you If ye say to me, “Fool, you have written plain drool”— That’s what I was trying to do.

So, ye who don’t like these two pages, Don’t think I’ll be angry with you If ye say to me, “Fool, you have written plain drool”— That’s what I was trying to do.

I hardly ever see a roof Which doesn’t shout, “Walk me, you goof!”

I hardly ever pass a tree But that it barks, “You can’t climb me!” And I am warned by every wall, “Lay off me, Lardner, lest you fall!”

There wasn’t no danger of us getting fat, And the cellar was painfully dry. But though we now boast of a house in Duluth And go there in passenger coaches, That house, it don’t seem like the home of our youth,

For a home ain’t a home without roaches.

We now have twelve slaves at our beck and our call, And Navajo rugs on the floor; A platinum hat rack stands out in the hall; There’s a pearl-studded knob on the door.

The mice and the rats and the weasels crowd in By thousands as winter approaches, And mother and I—well, we bear it and grin, But a home ain’t a home without roaches.

Hardly a man is now alive Who cares that in March, 1885, I was born in the city of Niles,

Michigan, which is 94 miles From Chicago, a city in Illinois. Sixteen years later, still only a boy, I graduated from the Niles High School With a general knowledge of rotation pool.

In those 14 years—just a horse’s age— My stuff was all on the sporting page. In the last five years (since it became illegal to drink), I’ve been connected with The Bell Syndicate, Inc.

I have four children as well as one Missus, None of whom can write a poem as good as this is.

Oh, will a day, I wonder, ever be When S. Jay Kaufman does not write to me! Some days he just solicits information Regarding where I’m going next vacation. Some days he asks me (absolutely solemn) To lay my work aside and write his column.

Some days he just solicits information Regarding where I’m going next vacation. Some days he asks me (absolutely solemn) To lay my work aside and write his column. Some days he wants ten dollars, bucks, or beans, To help the starving Middle-Europeans

I count that day a flop on land or on sea When S. Jay Kaufman does not write to me!

There was a man who wrote a play; One week it ran, then died away, Though critics said ’twould be a hit And even Ervine lauded it. ’Twas not too pure or too obscene; The plot was hot, the satire keen.