Words Are Easy, Like The Wind; Faithful

Let Every Eye Negotiate For Itself And Trust No Agent.

O, Thou Hast Damnable Iteration; And Art, Indeed, Able To Corrupt A Saint.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.

It Was A Lover And His Lass, With A Hey, And A Ho, And A Hey Nonino, That O'er The Green Corn-field Did Pass, In The Spring Time, The Only Pretty Ring Time, When Birds Do Sing, Hey Ding A Ding, Ding; Sweet Lovers Love The Spring.

From This Day Forward Until The End Of The World...we In It Shall Be Remembered...we Band Of Brothers.