A Quote by Joseph Addison

Round-heads and Wooden-shoes are standing jokes. — © Joseph Addison
Round-heads and Wooden-shoes are standing jokes.
My jokes are in my head and I have a duplicate copy of my jokes in a lot of British comics' heads, where they are safe.
I go round and round in circles, really, really fast, on a big wooden bowl.
I hate the French because they are all slaves and wear wooden shoes.
History is filled with the sound of silken slippers going downstairs and wooden shoes coming up.
Well, I'm obsessed with shoes - small shoes, weirdly shaped shoes, hotdogs in shoes, things sliding in and out of shoes.
I never really feel like just standing there and telling jokes. I want to move around. In fact, it's hard for me to write a joke where I don't end up on the ground for some reason. Hey, at least that way, I know no comics will steal my jokes. Too many bruises.
When I was five years old I was on a merry go round. There was a gunshot nearby. The horses stampeded. There I was running down the street on a purple wooden horse.
I have been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas Tree. The tree was planted in the middle of a great round table, and towered high above their heads. It was brilliantly lighted by a multitude of little tapers; and everywhere sparkled and glittered with bright objects.
A man's style is his mind's voice. Wooden minds, wooden voices.
Our heads are round so thought can change direction
Standing upright is not a talent because a brainless wooden beam can stand upright too! The important thing is to be flexible!
That's when I hit the ground. So in the instant that that round landed and blew me in the air, I had those separate and distinct thoughts. The guy who was standing right next to where I had been standing had a hole in his back I could put my fist into.
I like shoes. Always liked shoes. Wanted to be a shoe designer or somebody who made shoes, something in shoes.
From behind a wooden crate we saw a long black-muzzled nose poking round at us. We took him out-soft, wobbly, tearful; set him down on his four, as yet not quite simultaneous legs, and regarded him. He wandered a little round our legs, neither wagging his tail nor licking at our hands; then he looked up, and my companion said: "He's an angel!"
And the seasons they go 'round and 'round And the painted ponies go up and down We're captive on the carousel of time We can't return we can only look behind From where we came And go round and round and round In the circle game.
And there'd be no more jokes in Music-halls To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.
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