And Now, Dear Lord, I Cannot Wait

Hymn Tunes Are The Nearest We've Got To English Folk Music.

Childhood Is Measured Out By Sounds And Smells And Sights, Before The Dark Hour Of Reason Grows.

I Have A Vision Of The Future, Chum. The Workers Flats In Fields Of Soya Beans Tower Up Like Silver Pencils, Score On Score.

Lord, Reserve For Me A Crown, And Do Not Let My Shares Go Down.

On Out Deathbeds We're Not Going To Regret All The Work We Didn't Do. We're Going To Regret All The Sex We Didn't Have!