Getting Older Is No Problem. You Just

I'm Leaving Because The Weather Is Too Good. I Hate London When It's Not Raining.

My Plans Are Still In Embryo, A Town On The Edge Of Wishful Thinking.

The Foods That Are Recommended Today Are As Palatable As A Steady Diet Of Wet Blotters.

You Call This A Party? The Beer Is Warm, The Women Cold And I'm Hot Under The Collar.

Gentlemen, Chicolini Here May Talk Like An Idiot, And Look Like An Idiot, But Don't Let That Fool You: He Really Is An Idiot. I Implore You, Send Him Back To His Father And Brothers, Who Are Waiting For Him With Open Arms In The Penitentiary. I Suggest That We Give Him Ten Years In Leavenworth, Or Eleven Years In Twelveworth.