Poetry Is What Milton Saw When He

It Wont Be Long Now It Wont Be Long Man Is Making Deserts Of The Earth It Wont Be Long Now Before Man Will Have Used It Up So That Nothing But Ants And Centipedes And Scorpions Can Find A Living On It.

I Would Rather Start A Family Than Finish One.

Between The Years Of Ninety-two And A Hundred And Two, However, We Shall Be The Ribald, Useless, Drunken, Outcast Person We Have Always Wished To Be. We Shall Have A Long White Beard And Long White Hair; We Shall Not Walk At All, But Recline In A Wheel Chair And Bellow For Alcoholic Beverages; In The Winter We Shall Sit Before The Fire With Our Feet In A Bucket Of Hot Water, A Decanter Of Corn Whiskey Near At Hand, And Write Ribald Songs Against Organized Society... We Look Forward To A Disreputable, Vigorous, Unhonoured, And Disorderly Old Age.

Happiness Is The Interval Between Periods Of Unhappiness.

Nearly Every Night Before I Go To Bed I Ask Myself, "have I Vibrated In Tune With The Infinite Today, Or Have I Failed?