There Is No Song To Your Singing.

And Even Now She Beats Her Head Against The Bars In The Same Old Way And Wonders If There Is A Bigger Place The Railroads Run To From Chicago Where Maybe There Is Romance And Big Things And Real Dreams That Never Go Smash.

Under The Harvest Moon, When The Soft Silver Drips Shimmering Over The Garden Nights, Death, The Gray Mocker, Comes And Whispers To You As A Beautiful Friend Who Remembers.

Poetry Is A Plan For A Slit In The Face Of A Bronze Fountain Goat And The Path Of Fresh Drinking Water.

The Buffaloes Are Gone. And Those Who Saw The Buffaloes Are Gone.

People Lie Because They Don't Remember Clear What They Saw. People Lie Because They Can't Help Making A Story Better Than It Was The Way It Happened.