The Weatherman's in direst straits;
All wrong are his predictions;
Not Bright and Fair, but Drear and Cold—
And so his maledictions.

Now I can give the answer to
This scientific gent:
'Tis not from meteoric change—
But just 'cause She has went.

I've read by hundreds love-stuff books,
But ne'er believed one bit
When sun was made to cease to shine
When "She" made her exit.

But now I know that they were right;
From Sol no rays are sent;
It's dull and gray and dismal quite—
And all 'cause She has went.

I cannot read, nor write, nor think
Since She has went, Oh, dear!
Of compensation, though, there's heaps:
For, well, she once was here!

So I'll not mind the fierce heart pain
That naught seems to allay.
She's went, ah me! but I shall hope
That she'll come back some day.

She's coming—
The woman I loved and lost!
Widowed at last and once more free.
One hand, two, or arms? Ah, me!
Our meeting, her greeting—....
O what will it be?

She's coming—
The woman I loved—and love!
Long have I waited so hopelessly;
One year, all—yet faithfully.
Returning! I'm yearning....
Be kind, gods, to me!

Yes, coming!
O woman beloved of all,
Come to arms that still ache so for thee!
One age, two, Eternity
For loving, for Loving
Awaits you and me.

The night has a thousand eyes,
The day to one lays claim;
The big brown pair that you, dear, wear
Sure puts them all to shame.

It seems 'bout a thousand years
My heart you've trod in dust;
But lend an ear and listen, dear:
The end of waste is bust.

Though I've heard a thousand noes—
As someone knows is true—
An aye once said, we'll soon be wed,
Or I'll be ever blue.

Thinner yet and thinner—
I would be like thee.
I am nearly drowned in
Perspiration's sea.
From my adiposeness
I'd be set clear free—
Though it means my joining
Broomstick cavalry.

My nose is red,
I'm feeling blue!
If you had bawled
I guess so'd you ... be feelin' blue.
BECAUSE I Have Just Run Into a Nest of Crying Women.


I went to a Niobe party,
Where all were expected to bawl;
There were peachy repiners and whiners in minors—
Your "Uncle" wailed loudest of all.

Nobody loves a man that's bald,
I've often heard it said;
But why does Love, then, laugh at locks?—
It makes me scratch my head.

A simple truth I give to you
To always recollect;
There is one thing—and that's Friendship—
Will not thrive on neglect.

An order of Hoover's
I think is quite good;
"Don't feed your dear husband—
But husband your food."

"It must be fine," the Sweet Thing cried,
"To write a poem like his'n."
"It should be fine," the man replied,
"Plus thirty days in prison."