Emotions and Feelings

Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain.

The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries. And every joke that’s possible has long ago been made.

When everyone is somebodee, Then no one’s anybody!

Of that there is no manner of doubt— No probable, possible shadow of doubt— No possible doubt whatever.

No soldier in that gallant band Hid half as well as he did. He lay concealed throughout the war, And so preserved his gore, O!

He led his regiment from behind— He found it less exciting.

It’s a song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, and whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a lady.

It’s a song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, and whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a lady.

I seized him by his little pig-tail, And on his knees fell he, As he squirmed and struggled, And gurgled and guggled, I drew my snickersnee!

My object all sublime I shall achieve in time— To let the punishment fit the crime. 3

A source of innocent merriment!

Here’s a pretty state of things! Here’s a pretty how-de-do!

Ah, pray make no mistake, We are not shy; We’re very wide awake, The moon and I!

Three little maids from school are we, Pert as a schoolgirl well can be, Filled to the brim with girlish glee.

Then the idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone, All centuries but this, and every country but his own.

I can’t help it. I was born sneering.

As some day it may happen that a victim must be found, I’ve got a little list—I’ve got a little list. Of society offenders who might well be underground, And who never would be missed—who never would be missed.

To sit in solemn silence in a dull dark dock, In a pestilential prison, with a life-long lock, Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp shock, From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block.

To sit in solemn silence in a dull dark dock, In a pestilential prison, with a life-long lock, Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp shock, From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block.

For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich— Which is something between a large bathing machine and a very small second-class carriage.

When you’re lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo’d by anxiety, I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in, without impropriety.

When you’re lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo’d by anxiety, I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in, without impropriety.

Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band, If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your medieval hand. And everyone will say, As you walk your flowery way, “If he’s content with a vegetable love, which would certainly not suit me, Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!”

You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind, The meaning doesn’t matter if it’s only idle chatter of a transcendental kind. And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, “If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”