Your Neck. I Want To Kiss It.

My Wit Is Sharper Then The Finest Mustache, And When I Walk Among Men I Make Truths Ring Like Spurs.

To Offend Is My Pleasure; I Love To Be Hated.

Where Lurk Sweet Echoes Of The Dear Homevoices, Each Note Of Which Calls Like A Little Sister, Those Airs Slow, Slow Ascending, As The Smokewreaths Rise From The Hearthstones Of Our Native Hamlets Cyrano Act 5.

A Kiss Is A Secret Which Takes The Lips For The Ear.

It Is At Night That Faith In Light Is Admirable.