Of Men Who Have A Sense Of

Dreams Surely Are Difficult, Confusing, And Not Everything In Them Is Brought To Pass For Mankind. For Fleeting Dreams Have Two Gates: One Is Fashioned Of Horn And One Of Ivory. Those Which Pass Through The One Of Sawn Ivory Are Deceptive, Bringing Tidings Which Come To Nought, But Those Which Issue From The One Of Polished Horn Bring True Results When A Mortal Sees Them.

When I Was Seventeen I Drank Some Very Good Beer I Drank Some Very Good Beer I Purchased With A Fake Id My Name Was Brian Mcgee I Stayed Up Listening To Queen When I Was Seventeen

Nothing Feebler Does Earth Nurture Than Man, Of All Things Breathing And Moving.

A Glorious Death Is His, Who For His Country Falls.

It Never Was Our Guise To Slight The Poor, Or Aught Humane Despise.