Ogden Nash
Ogden Nash
Frederic Ogden Nashwas an American poet well known for his light verse. At the time of his death in 1971, The New York Times said his "droll verse with its unconventional rhymes made him the country's best-known producer of humorous poetry". Nash wrote over 500 pieces of comic verse. The best of his work was published in 14 volumes between 1931 and 1972...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth19 August 1902
CityTown Of Rye, NY
CountryUnited States of America
You scour the Bowery, ransack the Bronx,/ Through funeral parlors and honky-tonks./ From river to river you comb the town/ For a place to lay your family down.
Middle age ends and senescence begins, The day your descendants outnumber your friends
Then here's to the heartening wassail, Wherever good fellows are found; Be its master instead of its vassal, and order the glasses around.
Life has a tendency to obfuscate and bewilder, Such as fating us to spend the first part of our lives being embarrassed by our parents and the last part being embarrassed by our children.
The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks Which practically conceal its sex I think it clever of the turtle In such a fix to be so fertile.
Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.
Middle-aged life is merry, and I love to lead it.
I drink because she nags, she said I nag because he drinks. But if the truth be known to you, He's a lush and she's a shrew.
Here's a toast to the roast that good fellowship lends, with the sparkle of beer and wine; May its sentiment always be deeper, my friends, than the foam at the top of the stein. Then here's to the heartening wassail, wherever good fellows are found; Be its master instead of its vassal, and order the glasses around.
Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons, or Celts, Can't seem just to say anything is the thing it is but have to go out of their way to say that it is like something else.
Tonight's December thirty-first, something is about to burst. The clock is crouching, dark and small, like a time bomb in the hall. Hark, it's midnight, children dear. Duck! Here comes another year!
The burnt child, urged by rankling ire, Can hardly wait to get back at the fire.
Oh, what a tangled web do parents weave, when they think that their children are naive.
Children aren't happy without something to ignore, And that's what parents were created for