Poem of the day

Children

Pray dearest mother if you please
Cut up your double-curded cheese,
The oldest of the brotherhood.
It's ripe, no doubt and nicely good!
Your reputation will rise treble
As we the lucious morsel nibble.
Praise will flow from each partaker
Both on the morsel and the maker!


Madame

Your suit is vain,--upon my word,
You taste not yet my double-curd;
I know the hour,--the very minute
In which I'll plunge my cutteau in it;
Am I to learn of witless bairns
How I must manage my concerns?
As yet the fervid dog-star reigns
And gloomy Virgo holds the reigns.
Be quiet chicks, sedate and sober
And house your stomachs till October;
Then for a feast! Upon my word,
I'll really cut my double curd.

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Modern poem of the day

Tell me not, in doctored numbers,
Life is but a name for work!
For the labour that encumbers
Me I wish that I could shirk.

Life is phony! Life is rotten!
And the wealthy have no soul;
Why should you be picking cotton,
Why should I be mining coal?

Not employment and not sorrow
Is my destined end or way;
But to act that each tomorrow
Finds me idler than today.

Work is long, and plutes are lunching;
Money is the thing I crave;
But my heart continues punching
Funeral time-clocks to the grave.

In the world's uneven battle,
In the swindle known as life,
Be not like the stockyard's cattle--
Stick your partner with the knife!

Trust no boss, however pleasant!
Capital is but a curse!
Strike,--strike in the living present!
Fill, oh fill the bulging purse.!

Lives of strikers all remind us
We can make our lives a crime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Bills for double overtime.

Charges that, perhaps another,
Working for a stingy ten
Bucks a day, some mining brother
Seeing, shall walk out again.

Let us, then, be up and striking,
Discontent with all of it;
Still undoing, still disliking,
Learn to labour--and to quit.

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