Accustomed As I Am To

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!

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

Christmas Is Over And Business Is Business.

Count The Day Won, When The Earth, Turning On Its Axis, Imposes No Additional Taxes

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