Lackadaisy Quotes

Old Man River! That seems far too austere a name For something made of mirth and rage. O, roiling red-blood river vein, If chief among your traits is age, You're a wily, convoluted sage. Is "old" the thing to call what rings The vernal heart of wester-lore; What brings us brassy-myth made kings (And preponderance of bug-type things) To challenge titans come before? Demiurge to a try at Avalon-once-more! And what august vitality In your wide aorta stream You must have had to oversee Alchemic change of timber beam To iron, brick and engine steam. Your umber whiskey waters lance The prideful sober sovereignty Of faulty-haloed Temperance And wilt her self-sure countenance; Yes, righteousness is vanity, But your sport's for imps, not elderly. If there's a name for migrant mass Of veteran frivolity That snakes through seas of prairie grass And groves of summer sassafras, A name that flows as roguishly As gypsy waters, fast and free, It's your real name, Mississippi.

But the lie had to be a good one, because if your lie is badly done it makes everyone feel wretched, liar and lied-to alike plunged into the deepest lackadaisy, and everyone just feels like going into the other room and drinking a glass of water, or whatever is available there, whereas if you can lie really well then get dynamite results, 35 percent report increased intellectual understanding, awareness, insight, 40 percent report more tolerance, acceptance of others, liking for self, 29 percent report they receive more personal and more confidential information from people and that others become more warm and supportive toward them--all in consequence of a finely orchestrated, carefully developed untruth.

What's lawful doesn't always coincide with what's right, Freckle. And THAT was very right.

Good lack-a-daisy, Clara!" her aunt reproached her. "The man might dress improperly, but he's behaving like a perfect gentleman otherwise. And being wonderfully kind to the lassies, too. Why do you insist on being rude to him?" "Yes, mademoiselle," Morgan teased, "do explain yourself." Settling back against the carriage, he crossed his brawny arms over his chest. The muscles strained against the flimsy cambric shirt, making her mouth go dry. Why must a scoundrel fit only for hell possess a body fit for heaven?

Besides, what sort of heretic would I be to let Lady Dionysus down? For she keeps the contumacious key, To our sanctuary underground And retains the shady sanctity Of the royal rye and barley crown. Yet further, she's commensurate With her distiller's charity. Her very aura is an opiate- The electric-fever remedy. To be meadowsweet inebriate Is to breathe her smoke felicity. Still I could otherwise proselytize About the gong-sound of her look, About the moonshine-potent sighs, And the warm narcotic of