Everybody Thinks Theyll Never Get Married At

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.

You Should Think About Nobody And Go Your Own Way, Not On A Course Marked Out For You By People Holding Mugs Of Water And Bottles Of Iodine In Case You Fall And Cut Yourself So That They Can Pick You Up - Even If You Want To Stay Where You Are - And Get You Moving Again.

The Art Of Writing Is To Explain The Complications Of The Human Soul With The Simplicity That Can Be Universally Understood.

Walking The Streets On Winter Nights Kept Him Warm, Despite The Cold Nocturnal Passions Of Uprising Winds. His Footsteps Led Between Trade-marked Houses, Two Up And Two Down, With Digital Chimneys Like Pigs' Tits On The Rooftops Sending Up Heat And Smoke Into The Cold Trough Of A Windy Sky. Stars Hid Like Snipers, Taking Aim Now And Again When Clouds Gave Them A Loophole. Winter Was An Easy Time For Him To Hide His Secrets, For Each Dark Street Patted His Shoulder And Became A Friend, And The Gaseous Eye Of Each Lamp Glowed Unwinking As He Passed.

All I'm Out For Is A Good Time - All The Rest Is Propaganda.