I Long For Home, Long For The

A Boy Without Mischief Is Like A Bowling Ball Without A Liquid Center.

Ah, Beer, My One Weakness. My Achille's Heel, If You Will.

One Who Journeying Along A Way He Knows Not, Having Crossed A Place Of Drear Extent, Before Him Sees A River Rushing Swiftly Toward The Deep, And All Its Tossing Current White With Foam, And Stops And Turns, And Measures Back His Way.

It Is Entirely Seemly For A Young Man Killed In Battle To Lie Mangled By The Bronze Spear. In His Death All Things Appear Fair.

Of All Creatures That Breathe And Move Upon The Earth, Nothing Is Bred That Is Weaker Than Man.