When someone hits me for a loan
Why is it I can’t learn to groan,
And pitch a tale of abject sorrow
Like that I get when I would borrow?
by Ray Romine Monday, July 30, 1951
Author: Ray Romine
Top Tip
Unmanageable? Well, yes. Too fine?
Could be, and though I never use it,
Perhaps because my hair is mine,
I hate to lose it.
Thus proving, as my dome’s ungloved,
A cause, though lost, may still be loved.
by Ray Romine Monday, April 23, 1951
Top Secret
The man will say,
Who’s been a groom,
His mind’s made up–
But not by whom.
by Ray Romine Monday, October 2, 1950
Top Priority
My wife gets more than somewhat fed
At time spent on her coiffured head;
Not me, for I am glad my dome
Has something there for me to comb.
by Ray Romine Monday, April 20, 1953
Too Soon
The girl says “No” and her poor lad
Who sends his anguish rafterward,
Should not. He’ll find, should she change her mind,
That emtion useful afterward.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, December 30, 1952
Too Soon
When the little ones want to mow the lawn,
I wonder, as I refuse them:
Why can’t they conserve their pep and brawn
Til they’re old enough to use them?
by Ray Romine Tuesday, August 16, 1949
Too Much to Ask?
Is the time ever coming, I ask you,
As I watch shadowboxing and stunts,
When our statesmen will fight like our Boys do
And win a Peace maybe just once?
by Ray Romine Thursday, July 13, 1950
Too Many Are Falling In Mine
I’ll take the postman’s weary gait
For a real spine-tingling thrill:
Will he or won’t he turn in?—Wait!
Another “‘#?! ! bill!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, October 10, 1945
Today
Here is the tomorrow which we faced with dread
(Or eagerly looked forward to),
Only to find there’s another ahead,
Around the corner from view.
Forward and upward, mankind carries on,
Fighting and working and doing,
Living today with his heart in the dawn
Of the morrow which mocks his pursuing.
So it is that a man owes what we term his soul
To the fact that he never quite touches his goal.
by Ray Romine Saturday, May 17, 1952
To Thee, My Love
Twelve full years our love hast known;
I pause tonight end dream.
For twelve full years our love hast grown–
How brief they truly seem!
Child wert thou then, but even so–
Such beauty shown from thee,
In aura holy’round thy heed–
It captivated me.
Twelve full years of thee, my love
Have made me love thee more:
Joy I find in heav’n ebove
Will have been mine before.
In rippling verse I’ve lauded some
Of nature’s forms divine,
But words do fail me, lovely one
When seeking praise for thine.
Patient, non-complaining sweet,
Rewarded shalt thou be
When thou dost reach those pearly gates,
For PUTTING UP WITH ME!
by Ray Romine Sunday, October 26, 1941