Quote

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.

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
Good
Ill
Oboes
Insane
Reeds
Woods
Horn
Blow
Horns
Wind
Blows
Pain
Tune
Play
Wood
Oboe
Made
Tunes
Fingering

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A dressing is not a compote A dressing is not a custard It consists of pepper and salt, Vinegar, oil and mustard.
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Nobody agrees with anybody else anyhow, but adults conceal it and infants show it.
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We love the kindly wind and hail, The jolly thunderbolt, We watch in glee the fairy trail Of ampere, watt, and volt.
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The door of a bigoted mind opens outwards so that the only result of the pressure of facts upon it is to close it more snugly.
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One man's remorse is another man's reminiscence.
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Time is like the ocean, always there, always different.
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Bankers are just like everybody else, except richer.
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You can take it as understood, That your luck changes only if it's good.
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I drink because she nags, she said I nag because he drinks. But if the truth be known to you, He's a lush and she's a shrew.
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They take the paper and they read the headlines. So they've heard of unemployment and they've heard of bread-lines. And they philanthropically cure them all by getting up a costume charity ball.
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Some hate broccoli, some hate bacon I hate having my picture taken. How can your family claim to love you And then demand a picture of you?
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Beneath this slab John Brown is stowed. He watched the ads, And not the road.
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I'm like a backward berry, Unripened on the vine, For all my friends are fifty, And I'm only forty-nine.
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Any kiddie in school can love like a fool, But Hating, my boy, is an Art.
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