Dear 338171 (may I Call You 338?)

I'll Go And See Anything So Long As It Amuses Me, Or Moves Me. If It Doesn't Do Either I Want To Go Home.

Criticism And Bolshevism Have One Thing In Common. They Both Seek To Pull Down That Which They Could Never Build.

Labour Leaders Lead Us All, Though We Know They Bleed Us All. Cheer Our New Decline And Fall, Gibbon Might Have Dreamed It All.

To Know You Are Among People Whom You Love, And Who Love You – That Has Made All The Successes Wonderful, Much More Wonderful Than They'd Have Been Anyway.

An Infant Prodigy Of Nine Is Shoved Upon The Stage In White. She Starts Off In A Dismal Whine About A Dark And Stormy Night, A Burglar, Whose Heart Is True, Despite His Wicked-looking Face, Who Puts The Little Child In Doom, To Save Her Mamma's Jewel Case. This May Bring Tears To Every Eye; It Does Not Set My Heart On Fire. I'd Like To Stand Serenely By And Watch That Horrid Child Expire.