The cow is of the bovine ilk: One end is moo, the other, milk.
The burnt child, urged by rankling ire, Can hardly wait to get back at the fire.
Basketball, a game which won't be fit for people until they set the basket umbilicus-high and return the giraffes to the zoo.
Middle-age is when you're sitting at home on a Saturday night and the telephone rings and you hope it isn't for you.
Professional men, they have no cares; whatever happens, they get theirs.
Tonight's December thirty-first, something is about to burst. The clock is crouching, dark and small, like a time bomb in the hall. Hark, it's midnight, children dear. Duck! Here comes another year!