Drinking Is Bad Taste But Tastes Good.

The Rich Man Has His Motorcar, His Country And His Town Estate, He Smokes A Fifty-cent Cigar And Jeers At Fate. He Frivols Through The Livelong Day, He Knows Not Poverty, Her Pinch. His Lot Seems Light, His Heart Seems Gay; He Has A Cinch. Yet Though My Lamp Burns Low And Dim, Though I Must Slave For Livelihood- Think You That I Would Change With Him? You Bet I Would!

There Is No Accounting For Tastes, As The Woman Said When Someone Told Her Her Son Was Wanted By The Police.

Nothing Is More Responsible For The Good Old Days Than A Bad Memory.

Having Imagination, It Takes You An Hour To Write A Paragraph That, If You Were Unimaginative, Would Take You Only A Minute. Or You Might Not Write The Paragraph At All.

I Hate The Pollyanna Pest Who Says That All Is For The Best.