Poems to Memorize

If

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you But make allowance for their doubting too, If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

 If you can dream--and not make dreams your master, If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

 If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

 If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much,

If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

Why so Pale and Wan?

Sir John Suckling. 1609–1642

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?  

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do 't? Prithee, why so mute?

  Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;

This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her: The devil take her!

 

The Canterbury Tales : The Prologue

Geoffrey Chaucer, d. 1400

1:  Whan that aprill with his shoures soote 2:  The droghte of march hath perced to the roote, 3:  And bathed every veyne in swich licour 4:  Of which vertu engendred is the flour; 5:  Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth 6:  Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 7:  Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 8:  Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne, 9:  And smale foweles maken melodye, 10: That slepen al the nyght with open ye 11: (so priketh hem nature in hir corages); 12: Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, 13: And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, 14: To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; 15: And specially from every shires ende 16: Of engelond to caunterbury they wende, 17: The hooly blisful martir for to seke, 18: That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

When April with his showers sweet with fruit The drought of March has pierced unto the root And bathed each vein with liquor that has power To generate therein and sire the flower; When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath, Quickened again, in every holt and heath, The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun Into the Ram one half his course has run, And many little birds make melody That sleep through all the night with open eye (So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)- Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage, And palmers to go seeking out strange strands, To distant shrines well known in sundry lands. And specially from every shire's end Of England they to Canterbury wend, The holy blessed martyr there to seek Who helped them when they lay so ill and weal

   

You are Old Father William

Lewis Carroll

"You are old, father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white;

And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain;

But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat;

Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple

By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple?"

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are to weak For anything tougher than suet;

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife;

And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever;

Yet you balanced an eel on the end of  your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said the father. "Don't give yourself airs!

Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"

The Jabberwocky

Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought--

So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

 One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arm, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"

He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe

 

The Highwayman

Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

PART ONE

I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding -- Riding -- riding --

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair was mouldy hay,

But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter,

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say --

V

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by the moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,

When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching --

Marching -- marching -- King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale in-stead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window;

And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that HE would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!

"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say --

LOOK FOR ME BY MOONLIGHT; WATCH FOR ME BY MOONLIGHT;

I'LL COME TO THEE BY MOONLIGHT, THOUGH HELL SHOULD BAR THE WAY!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled like years, Til, now, on the stroke of midnight,

Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her

love's refrain.

VI

 TLOT-TLOT; TLOT-TLOT! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; TLOT-TLOT, TLOT-TLOT, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding,

Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

TLOT-TLOT, in the frosty silence! TLOT-TLOT, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him -- with

her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,

When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *

X

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding -- Riding -- riding --

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.  

Kubla Khan

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan   A stately pleasure-dome decree:

  Where Alph, the sacred river, ran   Through caverns measureless to man

  Down to a sunless sea.   So twice five miles of fertile ground

  With walls and towers were girdled round:   And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,   Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

  And here were forests ancient as the hills,   Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

  But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted   Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

  A savage place! as holy and enchanted   As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

  By woman wailing for her demon-lover!   And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

  As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,   A mighty fountain momently was forced:   Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

  Huge fragments vaulted like reboundng hail   Or chaffing grain beneath the thresher's flail:   And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

  It flung up momently the sacred river.   Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

  Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,   Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

  And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:   And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

  Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.   It was a miracle of rare device,

  A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me,   That with music loud and long,   I would build that dome in air,

  That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

  And all who heard should see them there,   And all should cry, Beware! Beware!   His flashing eyes, his floating hair!   Weave a circle round him thrice,

  And close your eyes with holy dread:   For he on honey-dew hath fed,

  And drunk the milk of Paradise.

The Cremation of Sam McGee

Robert William Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun   By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales   That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,   But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge   I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,   where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam   'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold   seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way   that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way   over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold   it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze   till sometimes we couldn't see;

It wasn't much fun, but the only one   to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight   in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead   were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,   "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you   won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;   then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold   till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread

  of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,

  you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,   so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn;   but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day   of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all   that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,   and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,   because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:   "You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you   to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,   and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,   in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,   while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --   O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay   seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent   and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,   but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,   and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,   and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice   it was called the "Alice May".

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,   and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,   "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,   and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around,   and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --   such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,   and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like   to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,   and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled   down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak   went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow   I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about   ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:   "I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .   then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,   in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile,   and he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear   you'll let in the cold and storm --

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,   it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun   By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales   That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,   But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge   I cremated Sam McGee.

The 23rd PSALMThe Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters: He leadeth me besides the still waters: He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou annointest my head with oil: my cup runneth over.. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.   

The Lord's PrayerOur Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven, Give us this day our daily bread, And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, And lead us not into temptation, But deliver us from evil, For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.  

Prayer Of St. FrancisLord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love. Where there is injury, pardon, Where there is doubt, faith. Where there is despair, hope. Where there is darkness, light, and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console, to be understood, as to understand. To be loved, as to love. For it is in giving that we receive. It is in pardoning that we are pardoned. And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.  

FootprintsOne night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord. Scenes from my life flashed across the sky in each, I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was only one. During the low periods of my life I could see only one set of footprints, so I said, "You promised me, Lord that you would walk with me always. Why, when I have needed you most, you have not been there for me?

The Lord replied, "The times when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when I carried you"  

TapsThere will be a great encampment in the land of clouds today. A mingling and a merging of our boys who've gone away. Though on earth they are disbanding, they are very close and near, for these brave and honored heroes show no sorrow, shed no tear. They have lived a life of glory, history pins their modals high, listen to the thunder rolling, they are marching in the sky! Arta Nottingham Chappius  

Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene II

William Shakespeare

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green

And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love!

O, that she knew she were! She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?

Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,

As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright

That birds would sing and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!

 

Ozymandias

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792-1822

I met a traveler from an antique landWho said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert...Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundles and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.

 

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Alfred Tennyson, c.1880

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said.

Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd.

Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not,

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of hell,

All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder'd. Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!

The Aeneid

Virgil

ARMS, and the man I sing, who, forc'd by fate,And haughty Juno's unrelenting hate,

Expell'd and exil'd, left the Trojan shore.Long labors, both by sea and land, he bore,

And in the doubtful war, before he wonThe Latian realm, and built the destin'd town;

His banish'd gods restor'd to rites divine,And settled sure succession in his line,

From whence the race of Alban fathers come,And the long glories of majestic Rome.

O Muse! the causes and the crimes relate;What goddess was provok'd, and whence her hate;

For what offense the Queen of Heav'n beganTo persecute so brave, so just a man;

Involv'd his anxious life in endless cares,Expos'd to wants, and hurried into wars!

Can heav'nly minds such high resentment show,Or exercise their spite in human woe?

The Owl And The Pussy-Cat

Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to seaIn a beautiful pea-green boat:

They took some honey, and plenty of moneyWrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,And sang to a small guitar,

"Oh lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing!

Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?"

They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the bong-tree grows; And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,

With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."

So they took it away, and were married next day By the turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince and slices of quince,Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon, The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

Your Destiny

by Frank Outlaw

Watch your thoughts.They become words.

Watch your words.They become actions.

Watch your actions.They become habits.

Watch your habits.They become character.

Watch your character.It becomes your destiny.

I'm My Own GrandpaCopyright Moe Jaffe and Dwight Latham, 1947

Now many, many years ago when I was twenty-threeI was married to a widow who was pretty as can be.

This widow had a grown-up daughter who had hair of red.My father fell in love with her and soon they too were wed.

Oh, I'm my own grandpaI'm my own grandpa

It sounds funny I knowBut it really is so

Oh, I'm my own grandpa.

This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life.My daughter was my mother, 'cause she was my father's wife.

To complicate the matter even though it brought me joy,I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.

Oh, I'm my own grandpaI'm my own grandpa

It sounds funny I knowBut it really is so

Oh, I'm my own grandpa.

My little baby then became a brother-in-law to Dad,And so became my uncle though it was very sad.

For if he was my uncle then that also made him brotherOf the widow's grown-up daughter who of course was my step-mother.

Oh, I'm my own grandpaI'm my own grandpa

It sounds funny I knowBut it really is so

Oh, I'm my own grandpa.

Father's wife then had a son who kept him on the run,And he became my grandchild for he was my daughter's son.My wife is now my mother's mother and it makes me blue,

Because although she is my wife she's my grandmother, too.

Oh, I'm my own grandpaI'm my own grandpa

It sounds funny I knowBut it really is so

Oh, I'm my own grandpa.

Now if my wife is my grandmother then I'm her grandchild,And every time I think of it it nearly drives me wild,For now I have become the strangest case I ever saw.

As husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa.

Oh, I'm my own grandpaI'm my own grandpa

It sounds funny I knowBut it really is so

Oh, I'm my own grandpa.