Because my teeth are feebly few I cannot bolt my grub like you, But have to chew and chew and chew As you can see; Yet every mouthful seems so good

I sing no idle songs of dalliance… No dreams Elysian inspire my rhym… I have no Celia to enchant my lay… No pipes of Pan have set my heart… I am no wordsmith dripping gems di…

Sea Change I saw a Priest in beetle black Come to our golden beach, And I was taken sore aback Lest he should choose to preach

I wanted the gold, and I sought i… I scrabbled and mucked like a slav… Was it famine or scurvy—I fought… I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it—

His face was like a lobster red, His legs were white as mayonnaise: “I’ve had a jolly lunch,” he said, That Englishman of pleasant ways. “Thy do us well at our hotel:

My Dog 'Twas in a pub just off the Stran… When I was in my cups, There passed a bloke with in his h… Two tiny puling pups;

A ray of sun strayed softly round, For something to caress, Until a resting place it found Of joy and thankfulness; 'Twas Minette, our Angora cat,

All day he lay upon the sand When summer sun was bright, And let the grains sift through hi… With infantile delight; Just like a child, so soft and fai…

Blind Peter Piper used to play All up and down the city; I’d often meet him on my way, And throw a coin for pity. But all amid his sparkling tones

When Chewed—ear Jenkins got hitch… His flowin’ locks, ye recollect, w… But in old Hymen’s jack—pot, it’s… Them flowin’ locks jest disappeare… Jest seemed to wilt an’ fade away…

“Deny your God!” they ringed me w… Blood—crazed were they, and reekin… Hell—hot their hate, and venom—fan… And one man spat on me and nursed… And there was I, sore wounded and…

I like to look at fishermen And oftentimes I wish One would be lucky now and then And catch a little fish. I watch them statuesquely stand,

I’m just a mediocre man Of no high—brow pretence; A comfortable life I plan With care and commonsense. I do the things most people do,

My garden robin in the Spring Was rapturous with glee, And followed me with wistful wing From pear to apple tree; His melodies the summer long

A sea—gull with a broken wing, I found upon the kelp—strewn shore… It sprawled and gasped; I sighed:… I fear your flying days are o’er; Sad victim of a savage gun,