Love Me. Love My Umbrella.

Evening Had Fallen. A Rim Of The Young Moon Cleft The Pale Waste Of Sky Line, The Rim Of A Silver Hoop Embedded In Grey Sand: And The Tide Was Flowing In Fast To The Land With A Low Whisper Of Her Waves, Islanding A Few Last Figures In Distant Pools.

Old Father, Old Artificer, Stand Me Now And Ever In Good Stead.

Deal With Him, Hemingway!

The Intellectual Imagination! With Me All Or Not At All. Non Serviam!

When I Makes Tea I Makes Tea, As Old Mother Grogan Said. And When I Makes Water I Makes Water.