Stir The Eggnog, Lift The Toddy, Happy

These Are My Daughters, I Suppose. But Where In The World Did The Children Vanish?

Gossip Isn't Scandal And It's Not Merely Malicious. It's Chatter About The Human Race By Lovers Of The Same. Gossip Is The Tool Of The Poet, The Shop-talk Of The Scientist, And The Consolation Of The Housewife, Wit, Tycoon And Intellectual. It Begins In The Nursery And Ends When Speech Is Past.

Oh, Princes Thrive On Caviar, The Poor On Whey And Curds, / And Politicians, I Infer, Must Eat Their Windy Words. / It's Crusts That Feed The Virtuous, It's Cake That Comforts Sinners, / But Writers Live On Bread And Praise At Literary Dinners.

Sons Do Not Need You. They Are Always Out Of Your Reach, Walking Strange Waters.

Oh, High Is The Price Of Parenthood, And Daughters May Cost You Double. You Dare Not Forget, As You Thought You Could, That Youth Is A Plague And A Trouble.