Tell Me, O Muse, Of Travellers Far

Miserable Mortals Who Like Leaves At One Moment Flame With Life Eating The Produce Of The Land And At Another Moment Weakly Perish.

I Was Working On A Flat Tax Proposal And Accidentally Proved There Was No God.

Toil Is The Lot Of All, And Bitter Woe The Fate Of Many.

Accept These Grateful Tears...for Thee They Flow, For Thee... That Ever Felt Another's Woe.

Thou Shalt Not Horn In On Thy Husbands Racket