There is something about a martini, Ere the dining and dancing begin, And to tell you the truth, It is not the vermouth- I think that perhaps it's the gin.

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

The burnt child, urged by rankling ire, Can hardly wait to get back at the fire.

No matter how deep and dark your pit, how dank your shroud, their heads are heroically unbloody and unbowed.

Why did the Lord give use so much quickness unless it was to avoid responsibility?

To Tom Carlson or his dog-depending on whose taste it best suits.

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