My love runs by like a day in June, And he makes no friends of sorrows. He'll tread his galloping rigadoon In the pathway of the morrows. He'll live his days where the sunbeams start, Nor could storm or wind uproot him. My own dear love, he is all my heart, -- And I wish somebody'd shoot him.
Dorothy ParkerNow I know the things I know, and I do the things I do; and if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you!
Dorothy Parker