Franklin P. Adams

Capitolo 30

  My cancelled business--and I knew that it was true.
To the smoker of shameless pedestrian underpass I have been an incessant the character of substitution----
  For that daily bother it finds me in a resentment--
But that that me ago angrier it is that faddists pestilential
  Who is bringing his/her head handkerchief in his/her cuff.

I am an anticlerical passive, harmless of the gaiter of launching-coloured
  What the men of the Rise will strike;
Of the noise and sassy clother, I am a quiet modest loather,,
  And to comic weskits of the section I object.
But, as I have announced, it suggested, alluded determined,
  Of the things that I believe are terrible stuff,
Nothing starts my indignation as the foolish affectation
  Of the man that brings his/her head handkerchief in his/her cuff----
            And-nough!
  Of the man that brings his/her head handkerchief in his/her cuff.



Songs for Mixed Bawls

(Being a relationship of stenographic of as it plays from
the plaza when a loads of boat of dozen go out on the lake
of an evening in summer.)


As I am born to good old Yale the shades of Upidee
That is where nobody cries more in Tennessee exposed my heart to the sun
How darling to heart grows tired away from grass of lawn you/he/she is blue
Above the waters of Cayuga that we will sing me I am strong for you.

An extracts Spanish thee and everything so excellent it is all right
That is where you find my dear Clementine the Your old black Joe
Old people would enjoy him/it on the road to Mandalay
'Twas from the polly-wolly-woodle of Aunt Dinah the whole day.

I feel those good evening ladies very forced because we am here
Afraid to go home in the with a good song that encircles in clear way
Only tell them that equitable Harvard that old Nassau is shining bright
As I am born to the great old rag that we roll along her/it good night!



The Translated Way

(Being a translation "lyric" of Heine "Du Bist
Wie Eine Blume", as you/he/she is usually done.)


You art likes to a Flower,
  So pure and clean you the art;
I see thee and a lot of Sadness