Some carol of the banjo, to its me… Of viol or of lute some make a son… My battered old accordion, you’re… You’ve been my friend and comforte… Round half the world I’ve trotted…
While I make rhymes my brother Jo… Makes shiny shoes which dames try… And finding to their fit and stanc… They buy and wear with elegance; But mine is quite another tale,—
We’ve finished up the filthy war; We’ve won what we were fighting fo… (Or have we? I don’t know). But anyway I have my wish: I’m back upon the old Boul’ Mich’…
Oh, it is good to drink and sup, And then beside the kindly fire To smoke and heap the faggots up, And rest and dream to heart’s desi… Oh, it is good to ride and run,
Because I was a woman lone And had of friends so few, I made two little ones my own, Whose parents no one knew; Unwanted foundlings of the night,
Bob Briggs went in for Government… And helps to run the State; Some day they say he’ll represent His party in debate: But with punk politics his job,
They say that Monte Carlo is A sunny place for shady people; But I’m not in the gambling biz, And sober as a parish steeple. so though this paradisal spot
A fat man sat in an orchestra stal… As he gazed at the primadonna tall… “Oh don’t you remember” he murmure… When hand in hand we used to go to… Ah me those days so gay and glad,…
Why am I full of joy although It drizzles on the links? Why am I buying Veuve Cliquot, And setting up the drinks? Why stand I like a prince amid
Out of the night a crash, A roar, a rampart of light; A flame that leaped like a lash, Searing forever my sight; Out of the night a flash,
Let us have birthdays every day, (I had the thought while I was sh… Because a birthday should be gay, And full of grace and good behavin… We can’t have cakes and candles br…
He gives me such a bold and curiou… That young American across the wa… As if he’d like to put me in a boo… (Fancies himself a poet, so they s… Ah well! He’ll make no “document”…
Franklin fathered bastards fourtee… (So I read in the New Yorker); If it’s true, in terms of courtin’ Benny must have been a corker. To be prudent I’ve aspired,
Is it because I’m bent and grey, Though wearing rather well, That I can slickly get away With all the yarns I tell? Is it because my bleary eye
Although my blood I’ve shed In war’s red wrath, Oh how I darkly dread Its aftermath! Oh how I fear the day