One bliss for which There is no match Is when you itch To up and scratch.

They take the paper and they read the headlines. So they've heard of unemployment and they've heard of bread-lines. And they philanthropically cure them all by getting up a costume charity ball.

Winter is the king of showmen, Turning tree stumps into snowmen And houses into birthday cakes And spreading sugar over lakes. Smooth and clean and frosty white, The world looks good enough to bite. That’s the season to be young, Catching snowflakes on your tongue. Snow is snowy when it’s snowing, I’m sorry it’s slushy when it’s going.

God in His wisdom made the fly And then forgot to tell us why.

I test my bath before I sit, And I'm always moved to wonderment That what chills the finger not a bit Is so frigid upon the fundament.

And you stagger down to break your fast. Greasy bacon and lacquered eggs And coffee composed of frigid dregs.

One thing about the past. It's likely to last.