Who is he? You may know him for his famous
"Candy is dandy,
But liquor is quicker"
lines. He has written tons of other poetry, too. Most of them are kind of silly. One of my faves is:
Behold the duck.
It does not cluck.
A cluck it lacks.
It is especially fond
Of a puddle or pond.
When it dines or sups,
It bottoms ups.
I recently found "The Best of Ogden Nash" at the library and brought it home to share with the kids. I have to say that I am disappointed that they didn't fully appreciate the humor of Ogden Nash. They just groaned when I read:
Many an infant that screams like a calliope
Could be soothed by a little attention to its diope.
There was a young belle of old Natchez
Whose garments were always in patchez.
When comments arose
On the state of her clothes,
She drawled, When Ah itchez, Ah scratchez
No accounting for taste, I guess! They just don't have appreciation for a fine turn of verse. [wink]
I will share one more with you all:
Oh, who would live in a silent house,
As still as a waltz left unwritten by Strauss,
As undisturbed as a virgin dewdrop
And quiet enough to hear a shoe drop?
Who would dwell
In a vacuum cell,
In a home as mute as a clapperless bell?
Oh, a home as mute as a bell that's clapperless
Is forlorn as an Indian in Indianapolis.
Then ho! for the patter of little feet,
And the childish chatter of voices sweet,
For the ringing laughter and prancing capers
That soothe your ear as you read the papers,
For trumpets that blow and the balls that bounce
As you struggle to balance your old accounts,
For the chubby arms that encircle your neck,
And the chubby behinds that your lap bedeck,
And sirens who save their wiliest wooing
For the critical spot in whatever you're doing.
Shakespeare's, I'm sure, was a silent house,
And that of Good King Wenceslaus,
And Napoleon's dwelling, and Alexander's,
And whoever that wrote The Dog of Flanders.
Yes, Shelley and Keats
And other elites,
They missed that patter of little feets,
For he who sits and listens to pattering
Will never accomplish more than a smattering.
Then ho! for the patter of little feet!
Some find these footfalls doubly sweet,
Subjecting them to the twofold use
Of paternal pride and good excuse.
You say, for instance, my modest chanteys
Are not so fine as Pope's or Dante's?
My deeds do not compare with those
Of Nelson, or Michelangelo'?
Well, my life is perpetual Children's Hour,
Or boy! would immortal genius flower!