These Words Are Razors To My Wounded

He Makes A July's Day Short As December.

I Hold Him But A Fool That Will Endanger His Body For A Girl That Loves Him Not.

. . . It Is Impossible You Should Take True Root But By The Fair Weather That You Make Yourself It Is Needful That You Frame The Season Of Your Own Harvest.

I Love A Ballad In Print O' Life, For Then We Are Sure They Are True.

The Good I Stand On Is My Truth And Honesty.