God Was Bored By Him.

Gavroche Had Fallen Only To Rise Again; He Sat Up, A Long Stream Of Blood Rolled Down His Face, He Raised Both Arms In Air, Looked In The Direction Whence The Shot Came, And Began To Sing.

I Refuse The Oration Of All Churches. I Ask A Prayer Of All Souls. I Believe In God.

Rhyme, That Enslaved Queen, That Supreme Charm Of Our Poetry, That Creator Of Our Meter.

Our Life Dreams The Utopia. Our Death Achieves The Ideal.

When Dictatorship Is A Fact, Revolution Becomes A Right.