It's Raining My Soul, It's Raining, But

It's Raining My Soul, It's Raining, But It's Raining Dead Eyes.

I Don't Want To Work. I Want To Smoke.

Without Poets, Without Artists, Men Would Soon Weary Of Nature's Monotony. The Sublime Idea Men Have Of The Universe Would Collapse With Dizzying Speed. The Order Which We Find In Nature, And Which Is Only An Effect Of Art, Would At Once Vanish. Everything Would Break Up In Chaos. There Would Be No Seasons, No Civilization, No Thought, No Humanity; Even Life Would Give Way, And The Impotent Void Would Reign Everywhere.

People Quickly Grow Accustomed To Being The Slaves Of Mystery.

Twentieth Pupil Of The Centuries Knows Its Stuff And Bird-changed This Century Like Jesus Climbs The Sky.