If There Wasn't Death, I Think You

The Flower And Fruit Of Love Are Mine The Ant, The Fieldmouse And The Mole

Love Is Not Love That Wounded Bleeds And Bleeding Sullies Slow. Come Death Within My Hands And I Unto My Love Will Go.

Oh Lion In A Peculiar Guise, Sharp Roman Road To Paradise, Come Eat Me Up, I'll Pay Thy Toll With All My Flesh, And Keep My Soul.

People Who Are Always Praising The Past And Especially The Time Of Faith As Best Ought To Go And Live In The Middle Ages And Be Burnt At The Stake As Witches And Sages.

Life In The [london] Suburb Is Richer At The Lower Levels. At These Levels The People Are Not Self-conscious At All, They Are At Liberty To Be As Eccentric As They Please, They Do Not Know That They Are Eccentric.