Franklin P. Adams

Capitolo 2

Light of the footlight Motivates--Olga Nethersole
Ballad of the Middle Reader
The Guerdon of Poesy
You signal Service
Sporadic fiction
Popular ballad;  "You never Forget Your Parents"
Ballad to one Mrs. (To Annabelle)
To an Encyclopedia
The Venerable old man Places
Erring in Society
The Limit
Songs for Mixed Bawls
The Translated Way
"And Still it is an Art Gentile."
Every now and then
Jim and Bill
When Nobody Listens
Office Mottoes
Metaphysics
Heads and Tails
An Election Pantoum Serale
I cannot pay That Prize
Three Authors
To Quotation
Melodrama
A Poor Excuse but Our Really
Monotonous variety
The Amateur Botanist
A Word for Him
The Poem Speaks
Bedbooks
A Child's Garden in New York of Verses
Descending, Comes Descending
Speaking of Hunting
The Way of the Flat Hunter
Birds and Bards
A Wish--An Apartmental Ditty
The Monument of Q. H. F.



Us the Poets


Wordsworth wrote some showy stuff;
  Very of Moore that I have forgotten;
Parts of Tennyson are guff;
  Also, pieces of Byron is rotten.

Everything to Make brown they are not great;
  There are shabby lines in Shelley;
Every knows the fate of Homer;
  Some of Keats is vermicelli.

Shakespeare sometimes struck the slide,
  Don't mention Pope or Milton;
Some of the stuff of Southey is counterfeit.
  Some of Spenser simply Stilton.

When one has to boil the pot,
  One cannot always look at the kittle.
You can accredit him/it or not--
  Now and then the crisis of _I_ a small!



To cover of rubber-postage stamp Humour


If couples joined but for love;
  If women all were perfect cooks;
  If the authors of Hoosier didn't write books;
        If horses always won;
If people in the apartment above
  It was silent as the very serious one;
  If you count foreigners they were prone to rescue;
        If tailors didn't do dun--

If automobiles always worked
  As advertised in catalogs;
  If you wander about they were not afraid of dogs;
        If servants never went away;
If you mock comic they always analyzed;
  If Alfred Austin were sublime;
  If poetry always rhymed;
        If authors all were skilled--