Go To The Well Of Deep Love

Everyone Turns Toward Someone. Look For One Scarred By The King's Polo Stick.

Iron Was Black And Sheenless, But Cleansing And Polishing Washed Away Its Blackness.

You Moan, "she Left Me." "he Left Me," Twenty More Will Come.

Wings Of Love Long Only To Fly Away From All Directions.

When Someone Is Counting Out Gold For You, Don't Look At Your Hands, Or The Gold. Look At The Giver.