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In youth, it was a way I had
To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad
To suit his theories.
But now I know the things I know,
And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you!
From Enough Rope (Boni & Liveright, 1926) by Dorothy Parker. This poem is in the public domain.
We’d build a little bungalow,
If you and I were one,
And carefully we’d plan it, so
We’d get the morning sun.
I’d rise each day at rosy dawn
And bustle gaily down;
In evening’s cool, you’d spray the lawn
When you came back from town.
Chloe’s hair, no doubt, was brighter;
Lydia’s mouth more sweetly sad;
Hebe’s arms were rather whiter;
Languorous-lidded Helen had
Eyes more blue than e’er the sky was;
Lalage’s was subtler stuff;
Still, you used to think that I was
Fair enough.
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.