These are the saddest of possible words: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.” Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds, Tinker and Evers and Chance. Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble, Making a Giant hit into a double— Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.”
Hark how the Mower Damon sung, With love of Juliana stung! While everything did seem to paint The scene more fit for his complaint. Like her fair eyes the day was fair, But scorching like his am’rous care. Sharp like his scythe his sorrow was, And withered like his hopes the grass.
‘Oh what unusual heats are here, Which thus our sunburned meadows sear! The grasshopper its pipe gives o’er; And hamstringed frogs can dance no more. But in the brook the green frog wades; And grasshoppers seek out the shades.
Nature, which is the vast creation’s soul, That steady curious agent in the whole, The art of Heaven, the order of this frame, Is only number in another name. For as some king conqu’ring what was his own, Hath choice of several titles to his crown; So harmony on this score now, that then, Yet still is all that takes and governs men. Beauty is but composure, and we find Content is but the concord of the mind, Friendship the unison of well-turned hearts, Honor the chorus of the noblest parts, And all the world on which we can reflect Music to th’ear, or to the intellect. If then each man a little world must be,
On the news tonight, a presidential colonoscopy — a tale ofhow for three whole hours the chief exec of trouble handed trouble to his vice (although no double trouble came), but then no more details revealed: no bacterial armies multiplying in a flare of war among kingly polyps & no kinky creases.
Welcome to the presidential gut, bubble gum pink, not a spot of shit (after a quick administrative cleanout) where global decisions stir & sit in state, and the first physician’s mighty pointer traces only microdrops of blood in secret places.
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; The gale, it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger When Uricon the city stood: 'Tis the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman At yonder heaving hill would stare: The blood that warms an English yeoman, The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
Stanza 1 From harmony, from Heav'nly harmony This universal frame began. When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay, And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise ye more than dead. Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap, And music's pow'r obey. From harmony, from Heav'nly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
Let me thy Properties explain, A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain; Chimnies with Scorn rejecting Smoak; Stools, Tables, Chairs, and Bed-steds broke: Here Elements have lost their Vses, Air ripens not, nor Earth produces: In vain we make poor Sheelah toil, Fire will not roast, nor Water boil. Thro' all the Vallies, Hills, and Plains, The Goddess Want in Triumph reigns; And her chief Officers of State, Sloth, Dirt, and Theft around her wait.
(As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality) Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;
Comment form: