Every Writer At The New Yorker Is

There's Beauty In The Silver Singing River There's Beauty In The Sunrise In The Sky But None Of These And Nothing Else Can Match The Beauty That I Remember In My True Love's Eyes

He Did Ten Years In Attica, Reading Nietzsche And Wilhelm Reich.

As I Stepped To The Stage To Pick Up My Degree, And The Locusts Sang Off In The Distance.

If Not For You, Winter Wouldn't Hold No Spring, Couldn't Hear A Robin Sing. I Just Wouldn't Have A Clue, If Not For You.

Too Much Information About Nothing.