Folklore Is The Boiled-down Juice, Or Pot-likker,

Bitterness Is The Coward's Revenge On The World For Having Been Hurt.

Perhaps I Am Just A Coward Who Loves To Laugh At Life Better Than I Do Cry With It. But When I Do Get To Crying, Boy, I Can Roll A Mean Tear.

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death. Dead Dreams Dropping Off The Heart Like Leaves In A Dry Season And Rotting Around The Feet; Impulses Smothered Too Long In The Fetid Air Of Underground Caves. The Soul Lives In Sickly Air. People Can Be Slaveships In Shoes.

It Was A Weak Spot In Any Nation To Have A Large Body Of Disaffected People Within Its Confusion.

I Did Not Just Fall In Love. I Made A Parachute Jump.