Part 8 (2/2)

Labor is a thing I do not like; Workin's makes me want to go on strike; Sittin' in an office on a sunny afternoon, Thinkin' o' nothin' but a ragtime tune.

'Cause I got the blues, I said I got the blues, I got the paragraphic blues.

Been a-sittin' here since ha' pas' ten, Bitin' a hole in my fountain pen; Brain's all stiff in the creakin' joints, Can't make up no wheezes on the Fourteen Points; Can't think o' nothin' 'bout the end o' booze, 'Cause I got the para--, I said the paragraphic, I mean the column conductin' blues.

Lines on and from ”Bartlett's Familiar Quotations”

(”Sir: For the first time in twenty-three years 'Bartlett's Familiar Quotations' has been revised and enlarged, and under separate cover we are sending you a copy of the new edition.

We would appreciate an expression of opinion from you of the value of this work after you have had an ample opportunity of examining it.”--THE PUBLISHERS.)

Of making many books there is no end-- So Sancho Panza said, and so say I.

Thou wert my guide, philosopher and friend When only one is s.h.i.+ning in the sky.

Books cannot always please, however good; The good is oft interred with their bones.

To be great is to be misunderstood, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans.

The Moving Finger writes, and, having writ, I never write as funny as I can.

Remote, unfriended, studious let me sit And say to all the world, ”This was a man!”

Go, lovely Rose that lives its little hour!

Go, little booke! and let who will be clever!

Roll on! From yonder ivy-mantled tower The moon and I could keep this up forever.

Thoughts in a Far Country

I rise and applaud, in the patriot manner, Whenever (as often) I hear The palpitant strains of ”The Star Spangled Banner,”-- I shout and cheer.

And also, to show my unbounded devotion, I jump to me feet with a ”Whee!”

Whenever ”Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean”

Is played near me.

My fervour's so hot and my ardour so searing-- I'm hoa.r.s.e for a couple of days-- You've heard me, I'm positive, joyously cheering ”The Ma.r.s.eillaise.”

I holler for ”Dixie.” I go off my noodle, I whistle, I pound, and I stamp Whenever an orchestra plays ”Yankee Doodle,”

Or ”Tramp, Tramp, Tramp.”

But if you would enter my confidence, Reader, Know that I'd go clean off my dome, And madly embrace any orchestra leader For ”Home, Sweet Home.”

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