Them Lady Poets Must Not Marry, Pal.

This World Is Gradually Becoming A Place Where I Do Not Care To Be Any More.

I Cry. Evil Dissolves, & Love, Like Foam; That Love. Prattle Of Children Powers Me Home, My Heart Claps Like The Swan's Under A Frenzy Of Who Love Me & Who Shine.

Them Lady Poets Must Not Marry, Pal.

We Are Using Our Own Skins For Wallpaper And We Cannot Win.

I Can Offer You Only: This World Like A Knife