When I Demanded Of My Friend What

Let My Temptation Be A Book.

Here We Have A Baby. It Is Composed Of A Bald Head And A Pair Of Lungs.

A Mighty Good Sausage Stuffer Was Spoiled When The Man Became A Poet.

How Gracious Those Dews Of Solace That Over My Senses Fall At The Clink Of The Ice In The Pitcher The Boy Brings Up The Hall.

All Human Joys Are Swift Of Wing, For Heaven Doth So Allot It; That When You Get An Easy Thing, You Find You Haven't Got It