The Love Boat Has Crashed Against The

On The Pavement Of My Trampled Soul The Steps Of Madmen Weave The Prints Of Rude Crude Words.

If An American Is Motoring On His Own, He (the Paragon Of Morality And Chastity) Will Slow Down And Stop Beside Every Solitary Pretty Female Pedestrian, Bare His Teeth In A Big Smile, And Tempt Her Into His Car With A Wild Roll Of The Eyes. A Lady Who Fails To Appreciate His Passion Will Qualify As An Idiot Who Doesn't Realise How Lucky She Is To Have The Opportunity Of Getting To Know The Owner Of This 100-horse-power Motor Car.

On I’ll Pass, Dragging My Huge Love Behind Me. On What Feverish Night, Deliria-ridden, By What Goliaths Was I Begot – I, So Big And By No One Needed?

Comrade Life, Let Us March Faster, March Faster Through What's Left Of The Five-year Plan.

My Verse Has Brought Me No Roubles To Spare: No Craftsmen Have Made Mahogany Chairs For My House.