I Ought To Warn You That My

And London Shops On Christmas Eve Are Strung With Silver Bells And Flowers As Hurrying Clerks The City Leave To Pigeon-haunted Classic Towers, And Marbled Clouds Go Scudding By The Many-steepled London Sky

Lord, Reserve For Me A Crown, And Do Not Let My Shares Go Down.

People's Backyards Are Much More Interesting Than Their Front Gardens, And Houses That Back On To Railways Are Public Benefactors.

Hymns Are The Poetry Of The People.

On Out Deathbeds We're Not Going To Regret All The Work We Didn't Do. We're Going To Regret All The Sex We Didn't Have!