The fruit rolled by all day. They prayed the cogs would creep; They thought about Saturday pay, And Sunday sleep. Whatever he smelled was good: The fruit and flesh smells mixed. There beside him she stood,— And he, perplexed; He, in his shrunken britches, Eyes rimmed with pickle dust, Prickling with all the itches Of sixteen-year-old lust.
I Am! Said the Lamb [excerpt]
I had a Donkey, that was all right, But he always wanted to fly my Kite; Every time I let him, the String would bust. Your Donkey is better behaved, I trust.
Suppose the Ceiling went Outside And then caught Cold and Up and Died? The only Thing we'd have for Proof That he was Gone, would be the Roof; I think it would be Most Revealing To find out how the Ceiling's Feeling.
A funny thing about a Chair: You hardly ever think it's there. To know a Chair is really it, You sometimes have to go and sit.
A Head or Tail—which does he lack? I think his Forward's coming back! He lives on Carrots, Leeks and Hay; He starts to yawn—it takes All Day— Some time I think I'll live that way.
The Time to Tickle a Lizard, Is Before, or Right After, a Blizzard. Now the place to begin Is just under his Chin,— And here's more Advice: Don't Poke more than Twice At an Intimate Place like his Gizzard.