Hopefully, I Write What I Don't Know.

Comes The Time When It's Later And Onto Your Table The Headwaiter Puts The Bill

It Is Hard Going To The Door Cut So Small In The Wall Where The Vision Which Echoes Loneliness Brings A Scent Of Wild Flowers In The Wood.

The Awful Thing, As A Kid Reading, Was That You Came To The End Of The Story, And That Was It. I Mean, It Would Be Heartbreaking That There Was No More Of It.

God Give You Pardon From Gratitude And Other Mild Forms Of Servitude.

I Heard Words And Words Full Of Holes Aching.