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Here lies my past, Goodbye I have kissed it Thank you kids, I wouldn't have missed it.

Ogden Nash

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Ogden Nash
Age: 68 †
Born: 1902
Born: August 19
Died: 1971
Died: May 19
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
New York
United States
Frederic Ogden Nash
Thank
Lies
Wouldn
Lying
Kids
Bye
Past
Kissed
Goodbye
Missed

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Wind is caused by the trees waving their branches.
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When I remember bygone days I think how evening follows morn So many I loved were not yet dead, So many I love were not yet born.
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All husbands are alike, but they have different faces so you can tell them apart.
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The noblest lord is ushered in By the practicing physician, And the humblest lout is ushered out By a certified mortician. And in between, they find their foyers Alive with summonses from lawyers.
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Indeed, everybody wants to be a wow, But not everybody knows exactly how.
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The truth I do not stretch or shove When I state the dog is full of love. I've also proved, by actual test, A wet dog is the lovingest.
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Oh, what a tangled web do parents weave, when they think that their children are naive.
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Good wine needs no bush, And perhaps products that people really want Need no hard-sell or soft-sell TV push. Why not? Look at pot.
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The doctor gets you when you're born, The preacher, when you marry, And the lawyer lurks with costly clerks If too much on you carry. Professional men, they have no cares Whatever happens, they get theirs.
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Beneath this slab John Brown is stowed. He watched the ads, And not the road.
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Life has a tendency to obfuscate and bewilder, Such as fating us to spend the first part of our lives being embarrassed by our parents and the last part being embarrassed by our children.
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I am a conscientious man, when I throw rocks at seabirds I leave no tern unstoned.
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If some confectioners were willing To let the shape announce the filling, We'd encounter fewer assorted chocs, Bitten into and returned to the box.
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The oboe's a horn made of wood. I'd play you a tune if I could, But the reeds are a pain, And the fingering's insane. It's the ill wind that no one blows good.
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Then blessings on thee, my afternoon torpor Thou makest a prince of a mental porpor.
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Middle-age is when you're sitting at home on a Saturday night and the telephone rings and you hope it isn't for you.
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So I hope husbands and wives will continue to debate and combat Over everything debatable and combatable Because I believe a little incompatibility is the spice of life Particularly if he has income and she is pattable.
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Time is like the ocean, always there, always different.
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In real life, it takes only one to make a quarrel.
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The trouble with a kitten is that eventually it becomes a cat.
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