Of loudly publishing owr neighbor's shame!"
This intelligent crack was originally whinnied eighteen hundred years ago by a snappy young Eyetalian limerick writer who I've decided to refer to as Juvenal, as that's how he referred to himself. By a strange freak of circumstances, I didn't have the pleasure of knowing Juvy personally, mainly because in the fiscal annum of 124 A.D. I was far too immature to go out with the boys. I absorbed the above poetry from a novel called "Satires", presented to me as an Arbor Day gift by one of my countless admirers at the Hotel St. Moe.
Really, giving me a book of poems is about five-eighths as sensible as sending passes for the Follies to the blind men's home. I'm not too ignorant to appreciate poetry, simply too busy. The only bound volume I get a chance to peruse in the day time is gotten out
