Hark! Dost thou seek the silent sage, Who whispers wisdom from the page? A kingdom bound in leather's clasp, Where ancient tales are thine to grasp.

When your Tuesday is fat, you let it all hang out before giving up whatever brings you joy for the next forty days.

The President was Silent Cal, Not long ago, a century, Who wasted not and wanted not, a puritan from birth was he. Thus when his son asked for me, the father told him to make do. The son paid him a visit soon, and rubbed his toe against his shoe In a tennis game, his blister burst, and the infection slew. The father in depression slid, and soon so did the whole country. Was it, in part, for want of me?

Cinderella’s fairy godmother turned a pumpkin into this, Drawn by horse to take her to the ball.