Every Song Falls Short Of The Glory

At The Top Of The Cycle You Write Policies For Everybody, No Matter How Bad, And At The Bottom You Cancel Everybody, No Matter How Good. It's A Manic-depressive Cycle.

...if You Get Confused, Just Listen To The Music Play.

Every Song Falls Short Of The Glory Of What A Song Could Be. That's Why The Urge Is There To Start Again And Yet Again. Often It's The Fault Of Rhyme. I've Discovered A Hundred Times That There Just Aren't Enough Rhymes To Say What I Wanted To Say, So I Said Something Else Instead. Sometimes It Was A Better Thing, But The Thing I Meant To Say Went Unsaid. So There's An Opening For Another Song.

Sit Back Picture Yourself Swooping Up A Shell Of Purple With Foam Crests Of Crystal Drops Soft Nigh They Fall Unto The Sea Of Morning Creep-very-softly Mist...and Then Sort Of Cascade Tinkley-bell Like (must I Take You By The Hand, Every So Slowly Type) And Then Conglomerate Suddenly Into A Peal Of Silver Vibrant Uncomprehendingly, Blood Singingly, Joyously Resoundingbells....by My Faith If This Be Insanity, Then For The Love Of God Permit Me To Remain Insane.

When It Seems Like The Night Will Last Forever, And There's Nothing Left To Do But Count The Years, When The Strings Of My Harp To Sever, And Stones Fall From My Eyes Instead Of Tears... I Will Walk Alone By The Black Muddy River, And Dream Me A Dream Of My Own, I Will Walk Alone By The Black Muddy River, And Sing Me A Song Of My Own.