Whatever People Think I Am Or Say

I Realized It Might Be Possible To Do Such A Thing, Run For Money, Trot For Wages On Piece Work At A Bob A Puff Rising Bit By Bit To A Guinea A Gasp And Retiring Through Old Age At Thirty-two Because Of Lace-curtain Lungs, A Football Heart, And Legs Like Varicose Beanstalks.

For It Was Saturday Night, The Best And Bingiest Glad-time Of The Week, One Of The Fifty-two Holidays In The Slow-turning Big Wheel Of The Year, A Violent Preamble To A Prostrate Sabbath. Piled Up Passions Were Exploded On Saturday Night, And The Effect Of A Week's Monotonous Graft In The Factory Was Swilled Out Of Your System In A Burst Of Goodwill. You Followed The Motto Of 'be Drunk And Be Happy,' Kept Your Crafty Arms Around Female Waists, And Felt The Beer Going Beneficially Down Into The Elastic Capacity Of Your Guts.

Whatever People Think I Am Or Say I Am, That's What I Am Not.

Well, It's A Good Life And A Good World, All Said And Done, If You Don't Weaken.

It's A Treat Being A Runner, Out In The World By Yourself With Not A Soul To Make You Bad-tempered Or Tell You What To Do.