Samuel Hoffenstein

The heart’s dead Are never buried.

Smelling like a municipal budget.

To all the starry host of Heaven they cried, But had no radio and of course they died.

To You, oh, Goddess of Efficiency, Your happy vassals bend the reverent knee, Save when arthritis, your benighted foe, Sulks in the bones and sourly mumbles "No!"

Little by little we subtract Faith and Fallacy from Fact, The Illusory from the True, And starve upon the Residue.

Which six of the seven cities that claimed Homer were liars?

My soul is dark with stormy riot, Directly traceable to diet.

Blessings love disguise.

The countless cousins of the Czar, Grand Duke or Duchess, every one, As multitudinous as are The spheres (who borrow from the sun).

Your little voice, So soft and kind; Your little soul, Your little mind!

If you love me, as I love you, We'll both be friendly and untrue.

Breathes there a man with hide so tough Who says two sexes aren’t enough?

I burned my candle at both ends, And now have neither foes nor friends.

The head that wears a crown may be Inclined to some anxiety, But, on the other hand, I know A derby domes its meed of woe.

Babies haven’t any hair; Old men’s heads are just as bare;— Between the cradle and the grave Lies a haircut and a shave.

The stars, like measles, fade at last.

I play with the bulls and the bears; I’m the Bartlett of market quotations.

Of all the birds that sing and fly Between the housetops and the sky, The muddy sparrow, mean and small, I like, by far, the best of all.

The apple grows so bright and high, And ends its days in apple pie.

I’d rather listen to a flute In Gotham, than a band in Butte.

Some folks I know are always worried, That when they die, they will be buried; And some I know are quite elated Because they’re going to be cremated.

Loyal be to loyal friends; Make them pay you dividends; Work, like the industrious bee, Your friends and foes impartially.

When the wind is in the tree, It makes a noise just like the sea, As if there were not noise enough To bother one, without that stuff.

You buy some flowers for your table; You tend them tenderly as you’re able; You fetch them water from hither and thither— What thanks do you get for it all? They wither.