I Know What The Caged Bird Feels,

We Wear The Mask That Grins And Lies.

The Age Is Materialistic. Verse Isn't. I Must Be With The Age, So I Am Writing Prose.

This, This Indeed Is To Be Accursed, For If We Mortals Love, Or If We Sing, We Count Our Joys Not By What We Have, But By What Kept Us From That Perfect Thing.

Oh, How With More Than Dreams The Soul Is Torn, Ere Sleep Comes Down To Soothe The Weary Eyes.

A Minute To Smile And An Hour To Weep In, A Pint Of Joy To A Peck Of Trouble, And Never A Laugh But The Moans Come Double; And That Is Life!