Along The Paris Streets, The Death-carts Rumble,

Repression Is The Only Lasting Philosophy. The Dark Deference Of Fear And Slavery, My Friend, Will Keep The Dogs Obedient To The Whip, As Long As This Roof Shuts Out The Sky.

I Have Been, As The Phrase Is, Liberally Educated, And Am Fit For Nothing.

Long May It Remain In This Mixed World A Question Not Easy Of Decision, Which Is The More Beautiful Evidence Of The Almighty's Goodness, The Soft White Hand Formed For The Ministrations Of Sympathy And Tenderness, Or The Rough Hard Hand Which The Heart Softens, Teaches, And Guides In A Moment.

And I Am Bored To Death With It. Bored To Death With This Place, Bored To Death With My Life, Bored To Death With Myself.

The Wine-shops Breed, In Physical Atmosphere Of Malaria And A Moral Pestilence Of Envy And Vengeance, The Men Of Crime And Revolution.