Fit For Kings, Formal Gardens Afford An

Mass Ought To Be In Latin, Unless You Could Do It In Greek Or Chinese. In Fact, Any Abracadabra That No Bloody Member Of The Public Or Half-educated Ape Of A Clargimint Could Think He Understood.

Art Is To Be Admired Rather Than Explained. The Jargon Of These Sculptors Is Beyond Me. I Do Not Precisely Know Why I Admire A Green Granite, Female, Apparently Pregnant Monster With One Eye Going Around A Square Corner.

Allow Me To Say That I Would Long Since Have Committed Suicide Had Desisting Made Me A Professor Of Latin.

Song In The Manner Of Housman" O Woe, Woe, People Are Born And Die, We Also Shall Be Dead Pretty Soon Therefore Let Us Act As If We Were Dead Already. The Bird Sits On The Hawthorn Tree But He Dies Also, Presently. Some Lads Get Hung, And Some Get Shot. Woeful Is This Human Lot. Woe! Woe, Etcetera.... London Is A Woeful Place, Shropshire Is Much Pleasanter. Then Let Us Smile A Little Space Upon Fond Nature's Morbid Grace. Oh, Woe, Woe, Woe, Etcetera.

And The Days Are Not Full Enough And The Nights Are Not Full Enough And Life Slips By Like A Field Mouse Not Shaking The Grass