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By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying—
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
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.