Life Is A Long Headache In A

My Road Leads Me Seawards To The White Dipping Sails.

Oh Some Are Fond Of Spanish Wine, And Some Are Fond Of French.

It Ought To Have Gangsters, And Aeroplanes And A Lot Of Automatic Pistols.

Man With His Burning Soul Has But An Hour Of Breath To Build A Ship Of Truth In Which His Soul May Sail- Sail On The Sea Of Death. For Death Takes Toll Of Beauty, Courage, Youth, Of All But Truth.

State Are Not Made, Nor Patched; They Grow; Grow Slow Through Centuries Of Pain, And Grow Correctly In The Main; But Only Grow By Certain Laws, Of Certain Bits In Certain Jaws.