Franklin P. Adams

Capitolo 13

Cooked as a regular Savarin--
 Kitchen was glimmering a' bright.
All worked along beautiful
 Up to that--it was tied up to happen--
You ran away with a laborer one day--
 But we learned on servants from her.

We have picked up our cooks where we have found them to us,
  Yellow and black and white;
Some was better than others,
  But none of the destiny was corrected.
And his end is only worry
  It is trouble and it bothers and noise--
When you respond to an announcement., you think about those that we have had
  And it learns on servants from us.



Our Animals of Dum


What time I look for my virtuous couch to steal
  Of the surcease from the he/she works some day,
Before silence as a cataplasm comes to recover--
  In short, when I get ready me to strike the hay;
Before the chains of sleep (I quote from Moore) you/he/she has tied me,
I feel a lot I divulge all around me.

Time was when the notorious trunk falling
  It was far harder than falling for sleeping;
But that was first the kind dog of my neighbour
  Started to think him you/he/she was defending sheep.
From twelve twos his/her barking and his howling
Accompany howling him every night of two lacerated cat.

To the two-ten acute the parrot in the apartment
  Through the way his/her compositions of monologue.
To three, again as Gilbert says, the cat;
  At four o'clock the horse of a dairyman, exulted, neighed.
To be-fifteen, neither it ever varies,
I feel the melodious tones of a canary.

Every living thing that I love;  I love the birds;
  The beasts in field and it forests, I also, love,
But I have document this poor man, if metric words,
  To consult what, from the whole pow'rs above,
Of all the animals--you pray tells me some one,--
  Has you/he/she called from some courtesy a mute?



A Susurrus Molle


A soft susurrus at night,
  A song whose singer is seen not--
'The poetry of same Twere to write
  "A soft susurrus at night!"
I know, as those bite of mosquitos,
  What I forgot to mend that screen,
"A soft susurrus at night!"
  A song whose singer is seen not.



One summer Summary


Me, lying in a grot,