Ah, Good Ol’ Trustworthy Beer. My Love

Ah How Shameless – The Way These Mortals Blame The Gods. From Us Alone They Say Come All Their Miseries Yes But They Themselves With Their Own Reckless Ways Compound Their Pains Beyond Their Proper Share.

Two Diverse Gates There Are Of Bodiless Dreams, These Of Sawn Ivory, And Those Of Horn. Such Dreams As Issue Where The Ivory Gleams Fly Without Fate, And Turn Our Hopes To Scorn. But Dreams Which Issue Through The Burnished Horn, What Man Soe'er Beholds Them On His Bed, These Work With Virtue And Of Truth Are Born.

I Would Rather Be A Serf In A Poor Man's House And Be Above Ground Than Reign Among The Dead.

Look At Me! I'm A Puffy Pink Cloud!

Long Exercised In Woes.