Every Writer At The New Yorker Is

There's Only One Day At A Time Here, Then It's Tonight And Then Tomorrow Will Be Today Again.

Obscenity, Who Really Cares. Propaganda, All Is Phony.

As I Stepped To The Stage To Pick Up My Degree, And The Locusts Sang Off In The Distance.

All This Talk About Equality. The Only Thing People Really Have In Common Is That They Are All Going To Die.

You Don't Need A Weatherman To Know Which Way The Wind Blows.