I'd rather be a great bad poet than a good bad poet.

Stuyvesant chats with Kelly and Katz, The professor warms to the broker, And life is good in the brotherhood Of an air-conditioned smoker.

Miranda in Miranda's sight is old, gray and dirty; Twenty-nine she was last night; This morning she is thirty.

All husbands are alike, but they have different faces so you can tell them apart.

Do you think my mind is maturing late, or simply rotted early?

How confusing the beams from memory's lamp are; One day a bachelor, the next a grampa. What is the secret of the trick? How did I get so old so quick?

Then here's to the heartening wassail, Wherever good fellows are found; Be its master instead of its vassal, and order the glasses around.