Maids, they say, like shadows are:
(I wonder if it's true).
Follow, and they run away;
Retreat, they follow you!
A Betrayal of Irish Ancestry
If you ask my wish sincerest,
I will quickly make reply:
May you live—yes, live forever—
And be happy till you die.
Exit Cooky
Our queasy queen of the cuisine
A queer, querulous creature has long been;
In her quite quiet way she quickly quit on Sunday—
Quid est? Quid nunc? Why—quondam!
The Limit
Prissy, persnickety people there be,
Fastidious, finical ones, we see;
But the fussiest man in town by far,
Is he who washes his little Ford car.