WE CELEBRATE THE fourth day of July
With peonies, crossettes, and other toys;
Chrysanthemums and spiders flung up high,
And big salutes to make an awful noise.
Our Constitution grants no right to silence,
So we put up with pyrotechnic violence.

THERE IS NO month that’s rhymier than June:
In fact, it sometimes seems that every tune
Has lyrics where some goon croons to the moon
In June while swooning by the blue lagoon.
How fortunate that even a baboon
Can write a song about the month of June!

entitled “Ode to a Very Good Article,” constructed from comments submitted but for various reasons not approved for publication. Each stanza is originally one entire comment.

—

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all within the four seas are brothers,
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The music is not pleasing to the ear;
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flowing slowly and eternally into the sea.

Be courageous in your life
and in your pursuit of the things you want
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Finally, I seemed to grasp his meaning
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THE MONTH OF May is merry by tradition,
No matter what your state of mind may be.
So try hard to improve your disposition
And smile at every passer-by you see.
Perhaps you’ll like it when you change your tune.
But if you don’t, May only lasts till June.

WHEN LUSTY APRIL with his showers sweet
Adds to the damp that March already poured
In buckets round our mud-encrusted feet,
The squishy mess is much to be deplored.
But, still, it’s hard to yield to indignation:
The early flowers are some compensation.

No. 2.—The Teacher of Useful Accomplishments.

—

This man is Mr. Clark—
Mark Clark—
A gay young spark
Who likes to bark.
Hark!
Hark unto the bark
Of Mark.

Just for a lark,
When it gets dark,
Ask Mark
(Or, rather, Mr. Clark)
To teach you how to bark
Like Mark.

WINTER WAS CANCELED; March is here already.
No blizzards loom to threaten our repose.
Our progress Spring-wards seems to be quite steady—
But still, prepare for unexpected snows.
Consider, as the mercury still rises,
That March is capable of wild surprises.

THE ROSE COMES in so many hues,
Who dares to call it red?
The violets would get the blues
If anybody said
That yellow, white, and even green*
Did not true violets make.
But all the flowers ever seen—
The real ones and the fake—
And all the ones we’ve yet to see,
On herb or tree or vine,
I’d bring to you, if you would be
My loving Valentine.

—

*Hybanthus concolor.