Life Is A Long Headache In A

Each One Could Be A Jesus Mild, Each One Has Been A Little Child, A Little Child With Laughing Look, A Lovely White Unwritten Book; A Book That God Will Take, My Friend, As Each Goes Out At Journey's End.

All Ye That Pass By! While We Least Think It He Prepares His Mate. Mate, And The King's Pawn Played, It Never Ceases, Though All The Earth Is Dust Of Taken Pieces.

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

From '41 To '51i Was My Folk's Contrary Son;i Bit My Father's Hand Right Throughand Broke My Mother's Heart In Two.

Poetry Is A Mixture Of Common Sense, Which Not All Have, With An Uncommon Sense, Which Very Few Have.