Franklin Pierce Adams
Fifty-Fifty - Poem by Franklin Pierce Adams
For something like eleven summers
I've written things that aimed to teach
Our careless mealy-mouthéd mummers
To be more sedulous of speech.
So sloppy of articulation
So limping and so careless they,
About distinct enunciation,
Often I don't know what they say.
The other night an able actor,
Declaiming of some lines I heard,
I hailed a public benefactor,
As I distinguished every word.
But, oh! the subtle disappointment!
Thorn on the celebrated rose
And fly within the well-known ointment!
(Allusions everybody knows).
Came forth the words exact and snappy.
And as I sat there, that P.M.,
I mused, "Was I not just as happy
When I could not distinguish them?"
Comments about Fifty-Fifty by Franklin Pierce Adams
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You