I wandered into a bookstore in D.C. yesterday and picked up a copy of The Portable Dorothy Parker for $17. Parker is the clever writer/witticist who was active mostly in the 1920s and 1930s. She wrote poems, short stories, reviews, and essays.
For this my mother wrapped me warm,
And called me home against the storm,
And coaxed my infant nights to quiet,
And gave me roughage in my diet,
And tucked me in my bed at eight,
And clipped my hair, and marked my weight,
And watched me as I sat and stood:
That I might grow to womanhood
To hear a whistle and drop my wits
And break my heart to clattering bits.