Franklin P. Adams

Capitolo 6

  You are a wife.

His/her daughter, with convenience,
You/he/she can look for male society,
 Does a thing and another
 In that his/her mother
  You/he/she should not mix;
But ago party Bacchanalian
It is--or you/he/she should be--rather alien
 To You a gotten married person,
 Anything the worse'n
  Forty-be!

Yes, Chloris, you cut on too much,
You love too much the dance and cup,
  Your years are quickly fluttering--
  To Your job to sweater,
    Straight around!
You forget the inherent things
That holds her from parental things--
  The World, the Meat, the Devil,
  On the level,
    Cuts 'the em out!



R.S.V.P.

AD PHYLLIDEM

Horace:  You book Ode of IV II

"_Est mihi nonum superantis annum_"


Phyllis, I have a keg of fine fermented juice of grape of grape,
Wine of Alban that has been nine years in the wine cellar.
Ivy's Chaplets? Sure. Also, in the garden,
        A lot of parsley.

Sees my small hut--because, you would not know him/it really.
All the rooms are swept, Domenica-as and glimmering;
Flowers all around, altar simply starved--
        Hungry for lamb you stew.

Neighbours all are coming above to the party,
All the busy boys, the whole girlies that foolishly laughs,
Odors of certain things spread from the kitchen--
        Simply delicious.

Oh, clearly. You ask because the artificial fires elaborate,
Because the awning out, because the elegant doings.
Well, I will tell him because. It is the birthday of Maecenas
    13 April.

Telephus? Oh, tush! Pass him/it completely on!
Telly is such long sea;  Telly doesn't love Him;
Telly is an idler;  Telly is working round with
    Of the other fairy.

Phyllie, doesn't make mismate;  those that repent it.
Phaeton--you know his/her unhappy history;
Also, poor Bellerophon that you have to remember,
    Pegasus the shake.

If these few comments, rather properly the chosen,
Makes a hit with you, come doesn't do me jealous.
Allow me to sing you mock her/it of mine really to compose,
    Oh, come on!



Board

AD ARIUSTUM FUSCUM


         ME


Horace:  You book me, Ode 22.

"_Integer vitae sclerisque purus_"--