The bed is a bundle of paradoxes: we go to it with reluctance, yet we quit it with regret; we make up our minds every night to leave it early, but we make up our bodies every morning to keep it late.

When I ponder my mind I consistently find It is glued On food.

Some one invented the telephone, And interrupted a nation's slumbers, Ringing wrong but similar numbers.

Here's a good rule of thumb; too clever is dumb.

Professional men, they have no cares; whatever happens, they get theirs.

But children, hark! Your mother would rather, When you arrived, have been your father.

Maybe I couldn't be dafter, But I keep wondering if this time we settle our differences before a war instead of after.