Humor e Ironia

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.

I can’t help it. I was born sneering.

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.

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!”

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!”

Things are seldom what they seem, Skim milk masquerades as cream.

And I’m never, never sick at sea! He’s hardly ever sick at sea! Then give three cheers, and one cheer more For the hardy Captain of the Pinafore!

I’m called Little Buttercup—dear little Buttercup, Though I could never tell why.

I am the Captain of the Pinafore; And a right good captain too!

Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain’s gig.

As innocent as a new-laid egg.

He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimneypiece: He looked again, and found it was His sister’s husband’s niece.

He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp: He looked again, and found it was A penny postage stamp. “You’d best be getting home,” he said, “The nights are very damp.”

He thought he saw an Elephant, That practiced on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. “At length I realize,” he said, “The bitterness of Life!”

For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway share; They charmed it with smiles and soap.

I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know! How dreary—to be—Somebody! How public—like a Frog— To tell one’s name—the livelong June— To an admiring Bog!

With patient inattention hear him prate.

Cynicism is intellectual dandyism.

Let the long contention cease! Geese are swans, and swans are geese.

It’s a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes.

The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, “Some day you may lose them all”— He replied, “Fish fiddle-de-dee!”

“I would be your wife most gladly!” (Here she twirled her fingers madly),

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough.