Poetry Is Not The Thing Said, But

The House Of Delusions Is Cheap To Build But Drafty To Live In.

I, A Stranger And Afraid, In A World I Never Made.

Why, If 'tis Dancing You Would Be, There's Brisker Pipes Than Poetry. Say, For What Were Hop-yards Meant, Or Why Was Burton Built On Trent? Oh Many A Peer Of England Brews Livelier Liquor Than The Muse, And Malt Does More Than Milton Can To Justify God's Ways To Man. Ale, Man, Ale's The Stuff To Drink For Fellows Whom It Hurts To Think: Look Into The Pewter Pot To See The World As The World's Not.

White In The Moon The Long Road Lies.

Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff: You Eat Your Victuals Fast Enough; There Can't Be Much Amiss, 'tis Clear, To See The Rate You Drink Your Beer. But Oh, Good Lord, The Verse You Make, It Gives A Chap The Belly-ache. The Cow, The Old Cow, She Is Dead; It Sleeps Well The Horned Head: We Poor Lads, 'tis Our Turn Now To Hear Such Tunes As Killed The Cow. Pretty Friendship 'tis To Rhyme Your Friends To Death Before Their Time. Moping, Melancholy Mad: Come, Pipe A Tune To Dance To, Lad.