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O Duty,
Why hast thou not the visage of a sweetie or a cutie?
Why glitter thy spectacles so ominously?
Why art thou clad so abominously?
Why are thou so different from Venus
And why do thou and I have so few interests mutually 
   in common between us?
Why art thou fifty per cent martyr
And fifty-one per cent Tartar?

Why is it thy unfortunate wont
To try to attract people by calling on them either to 
   leave undone the deeds they like, or to do the deeds 
    they don't?
Why art thou so like an April post-mortem
Or something that died in the ortumn?

Above all, why dost thou continue to hound me?
Why art thou always albatrossly hanging around me?
   Thou so ubiquitous,
   And I so iniquitous,
I seem to be the one person in the world thou art 
  perpetually preaching at who or to who;
Whatever looks like fun, there art thou standing 
  between me and it, calling "you-hoo".

O Duty, Duty!
How noble a man sould I be hadst thou the visage of 
  a sweetie or a cutie!
But as it is thou art so much forbiddinger than a 
  Wodehouse hero's forbiddingest aunt
That in the words of the poet, When Duty whispers low
  "Thou must," this erstwhile youth replies, "I just can't".


Come, megims, mollygrubs and collywobbles!
Come, gloom that limps, and misery that hobbles!  
Come also, most exquisite melancoliage, 
As dank and decadent and November foliage!
I crave to shudder in your moist embrace,
To feel your oystery fingers on my face.
This is my hour of sadness and of soulfulness,
And cursed be he who dissipates my dolefulness.
I do not desire to be cheered,
I desire to retire, I am thinking of growing a beard,
A sorrowful beard, with a mournful, a dolorous hue in it,
With ashes and glue in it.
I want to be drunk with despair,
I want to caress my care,
I do not wish to be blithe,
I wish to recoil and writhe,
I will revel in cosmic woe,
And I want my woe to show.
This is the morbid moment,
This is the ebony hour.
Anoint thee, sweetness and light!
I want to be dark and sour!
Away with the bird that twitters!
All that glitters is jitters!
Roses, roses are gray!
Violets cry Boo! and frighten me.
Sugar is stimulating.
And people conspire to brighten me.
Go hence, people go hence!
Go sit on a picket fence!  
Go gargle with mineral oil,
Go out and develop a boil!
Melancholy is what I brag and boast of,
Melancholy I mean to make the most of,
You beaming optimists shall not destroy it.
But while I am it, intend to enjoy it.
Go people, stuff your mouths with soap,
And remember, please, that when I mope, 
                      I mope!

        I LOVE ME

I'm always my own best cheerer;
    Myself I satisfy
Till I take a look in the mirror
   And see things I to I.


As we were driving on the pike
   From Florida to the north,
The skies above were clear and blue,
   The road ahead was gray.

We could not see the pretty fields,
   The gardens, brooks, and trees,
The sweep of undulating hills,
   Nor anything like these.

Yet, oh, how lovely was the sight!
   It nullified our gloom!
All purple, yellow, green, and red,
   The billboards were in bloom!

         TO MY DOCTOR

Good doctor, let me but request
  One favor as your office guest;
Whenas you poke me in the chest,
  And otherwise engage
In probing every nerve and cell
  Of my decaying citadel,
Don't grin and say, "You're doing well,
  Considering your age."


Courier is prim and old,   
  Orator's black and crowdy
Roman, though it's often bold,
  Is neat, but never Goudy.
Prestige was once the rage,
  Today we use Bodoni,
But what you see on many a page
  Consists of pure Boloney.


Poetry looks better when in  metrical  design
Exactly and compactly fits a typographic line.
It's hard on any bard, but I'm a silly egotist
I'm gonna try to show that I can do it. Oops! 
                                        I missed!


A wonderful bird is the pelican,
His bill will hold more than his belican;
He takes in his beak enough food for a week,
But I'm damned if I see how the helican.


"I buy a pig," the butcher said,
   "And grind 'er up complete,
Excepting for the nose and tail,
   For they ain't fit to eat.
That's why I'm always broke," he wept;
   "I can't make both ends meat."

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