It Is Always The Latest Song That

Zeus It Seems Has Given Us From Youth To Old Age A Nice Ball Of Wool To Wind-nothing But Wars Upon Wars Until We Shall Perish Every One.

Fate Is The Same For The Man Who Holds Back, The Same If He Fights Hard. We Are All Held In A Single Honor, The Brave With The Weaklings. A Man Dies Still If He Has Done Nothing, As The One Who Has Done Much.

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.

This Is The Way I've Always Thought It Should Be. We've Always Blamed Ourselves, But I Guess We Know What Cylinder Wasn't Firing!

Sleep, Delicious And Profound, The Very Counterfeit Of Death