God in his wisdom made the fly
Then He forgot to tell us why.
By Ogden Nash
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Monthly Archives: May 2014
I have the common cold, so I have been told
Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
I’m not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.
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By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever’s hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!
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Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.
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Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne’er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.
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A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare’s plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
By Ogden Nash
Bill and Ben, flower pot men
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‘In search of lettuce’
Bill and Ben search the garden for some lettuce for Slowcoach, and Thistle tricks them.
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The Clangers : An Intruder!
The Clangers are peacefully building a house. We hear a whistling sound and down comes something. The Clangers run for cover. The thing is a terrestrial space-probe vehicle with large initials on it. It is a tracked vehicle with appendages. The Clangers watch it begin its investigations. It probes about, beeping and buzzing to itself. It finds a piece of local rock and produces a sort of digging device. It digs up the rock and appears to eat it. This shocks Mr. Clanger who goes out to speak to it. The space-probe does not register his existence and pushes him rudely out of the way. Mr. Clanger pushes back. Then the vehicle stops, backs away and produces a turret with an optical instrument on it and proceeds to examine Mr. Clanger with it. It approaches him and Mr. Clanger, thinking it wishes to shake hands, grasps the instrument which comes off in his hand. The space-probe goes into emergency action. Mr. Clanger tries to put back the instrument but the vehicle takes no notice. It ignites its rockets. It blasts off.
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THANK GOD IT’S FRIDAY
THANK GOD IT’S FRIDAY
by Joseph Messick
Monday comes and it’s back to work,
And oh I feel so blue.
Why can’t it be Friday at five,
Oh I wish that it were true.
Tuesday comes and I’m so tired,
I think that I’m depressed.
Oh well I’ll make it some how,
At least I’ll do my best.
Wednesday comes and I see some light,
After Wednesday it’s a downhill grade.
Only two more days till Friday,
And then I’ll have it made.
Thursday comes it’s getting close,
I feel better yes I do.
Tomorrow will be Friday,
Oh Friday I love you.
Thank God it’s Friday,
Only eight more hours to go.
Thank God it’s Friday,
I believe that clock is slow.
Thank God its five o’clock Friday,
Oh joy, oh bliss divine.
No more work for two whole day’s,
It’s such a wonderful time.
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Austin Maestro
Austin Maestro 1.3 City X
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Stories for children and young at heart adults.
Guardian Angel Poem
Guardian Angels
God gave us each an angel
To watch over us with love.
They’re always carrying messages
To Him in Heaven above.
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They warn us during danger,
Encourage us to do what is right,
And will always guard and guide us,
Throughout the day and night.
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God sent them to protect us,
When crisis comes our way,
And to aid us with our problems
That we encounter every day.
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Thank You, my God in Heaven,
For our Guardian Angels dear.
They’re just a token of Your love
To help us through life’s fears.
By Shirley Hile Powell
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 