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قراءة كتاب The Jumble Book of Rhymes Recited by the Jumbler
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
de foie gras in Paree;
I have bolted guava jelly and tortillas, Madrid's best,
And I've chop-sticked bird's-nest soup a la Chinee.
But of all the palate-ticklers on the whole world's bill of fare,
Whether ladled out at morning, night or noon,
Not a gustatory stimulant that I know can compare
With a little dab of taffy on a spoon.
Just a little bit of taffy—presto! won!!
Every married woman knows it—every girlie ought to know:
If you feed a man of taffy he's undone.
When a man tries introspection, then he stacks up mighty small;
So he keeps from this self-searching all he can;
Yet a feeling lies inherent, never's lost in him at all,
That he'd like to be a bigger, better man.
So when other people tell him that he's bigger, nicer far,
Or a better chap than he himself can see,
There is worked a transformation and his stock goes way 'bove par,
And he feels the man he'd really like to be.
It's not Vanity that does it, but his Better Self you view
As he smiles and purrs and pleases all he can.
As a corking good investment I would hand this tip to you:
Just try always feeding taffy to a man.
Do not stinge nor be too saving, don't conserve this priceless boon,
But feed as though you had an endless store;
With an appetite voracious he will gulp it from the spoon,
And when all's gone he'll loudly cry for more.
Myself vs. Me
Between Myself and Me;
I see the right, yet do the wrong—
This much too frequently.
I have the foolish habit,
That oft brings me disgrace,
Of cutting off my Roman nose
To spite my ugly face.
I'm daily robbing Peter
To pay Old Mister Paul—
Though cosmos out of chaos
It never makes at all.
I jump out of the skillet
Into the fire that's hot;
With fingers burned I dread the blaze.
But quit it? I guess not!
And so goes on the battle
Between Myself and Me—
Old Satan pulling fiercely 'gainst
Respectability?
To "The Quiet Observer"
Upon the column that you wrote,
In which you, sir, were pleased to quote
From me and Riley—
From me and him,
From me and Jim,
From me and Riley.
The tout ensemble did impel
My manly chest to heave and swell;
The combination "liked me well;"
Me, you and Riley.
It seemed a great
Triumvirate—
Me, You and Riley.
But soon in deep humility
My head was bowed, and I could see
The difference 'tween little me
And You and Riley.
I lacked the art
To touch the heart
Like you and Riley.
You seem to write with greatest ease,
Of cheerful mien, of birds and bees,
And out-of-doorsy things one sees—
And so does Riley.
With master-stroke,
To common folk
Write you and Riley.
I take a hack-saw and a square
And cut my rhymes with greatest care;
'Tis harder work for me, I swear,
Than you and Riley.
And yet I fail
To hit the nail
Like you and Riley.
You write in prose—a rhymer he—
And yet 't has always seemed to me
Your souls alike must surely be—
Yours, sir, and Riley's.
You love each thing
Of which you sing—
Do you and Riley.
A bas Polyanna!
I hate the Pollyanna cult! Cheeruptimistic lore, that now confronts at every turn, long since became a bore. In daily press, in magazines, in every thing I read, the sugar-coated life's prescribed as man's most urgent need. 'Tis O be joyful, grin and smile, let tears be left unshed; just purr and sing the whole day long, then pass it on ahead! If grandma dies or cook takes leave or father breaks a leg, be glad, be glad; and if you're broke, why, whistle as you beg! Now I, for one, refuse to live a grinning Cheshire cat. I'm just as human, mad as glad—a fool can tell you that. All sunshine makes a desert waste, and honey-words soon pall; because someone's in harder luck can't make me glad at all. A man has special muscles just to corrugate his brow; the Lord knew when he fashioned them that they'd be used, and how. I want my friends without veneer, straightforward as can be; and I will grant them outlet for innate depravity. Why bluff and play that grief's not real? Why blush to shed a tear? A temper may be lost and found, with Paradise still near. No need to gloom or grouch or fret, no need to howl or whine; but may the right to voice a grief or own a pain be mine.
If You'd Marry
