An Optimist Is The Person Who Has

Blood Will Tell, But Often It Tells Too Much.

Between The Years Of Ninety-two And A Hundred And Two, However, We Shall Be The Ribald, Useless, Drunken, Outcast Person We Have Always Wished To Be. We Shall Have A Long White Beard And Long White Hair; We Shall Not Walk At All, But Recline In A Wheel Chair And Bellow For Alcoholic Beverages; In The Winter We Shall Sit Before The Fire With Our Feet In A Bucket Of Hot Water, A Decanter Of Corn Whiskey Near At Hand, And Write Ribald Songs Against Organized Society... We Look Forward To A Disreputable, Vigorous, Unhonoured, And Disorderly Old Age.

Old Godheads Sink In Space And Drown Their Arks Like Foundered Galleons Sucked Down.

Yes, He's Got All Them Different Kinds Of Thoroughbred Blood In Him, And He's Got Other Kinds You Ain't Mentioned And That You Ain't Slick Enough To See.

Ideas Pull The Trigger, But Instinct Loads The Gun.