Dear 338171 (May I call you 338?)

Though the fact that they have to be rebuilt And frequently mortgaged to the hilt Is inclined to take the gilt Off the gingerbread, And certainly damps the fun Of the eldest son.

At twelve noon, The natives swoon And no further work is doneBut mad dogs and Englishmen, Go out in the midday sun.

She stopped the show - but then the show wasn't traveling very fast.

Never trust a man with short legs. His brains are too near his bottom.

Madame Bovary is the sexiest book imaginable. The woman's virtually a nyphomaniac but you won't find a vulgar word in the entire thing.

I can't sing, but I know how to, which is quite different.