I Don't Want My Daughter To Be

Excuse Me, I Said. I Thought You Were A Trout Stream. I'm Not, She Said.

We Walked Back To Ideath, Holding Hands. Hands Are Very Nice Things, Especially After They Have Travelled Back From Making Love.

Our Names Were Made For Us In Another Century.

Gee, You're So Beautiful That It's Starting To Rain Oh, Marcia, I Want Your Long Blonde Beauty To Be Taught In High School, So Kids Will Learn That God Lives Like Music In The Skin And Sounds Like A Sunshine Harpsicord. I Want High School Report Cards To Look Like This: Playing With Gentle Glass Things A Computer Magic A Writing Letters To Those You Love A Finding Out About Fish A Marcia's Long Blonde Beauty A+!

Language Does Not Leave Fossils, At Least Not Until It Has Become Written.