Progress might have been all right once, but it's gone on too long.
Any kiddie in school can love like a fool, But Hating, my boy, is an Art.
Whether elected or appointed he considers himself the Lord's anointed, and indeed the ointment lingers on him so thick you can't get your fingers on him.
Remorse is violent dyspepsia of the mind.
Some one invented the telephone, And interrupted a nation's slumbers, Ringing wrong but similar numbers.
Then here's to the heartening wassail, Wherever good fellows are found; Be its master instead of its vassal, and order the glasses around.