I Want A Lot To Eat, I'm

And Now, My Poor Old Woman, Why Are You Crying So Bitterly? It Is Autumn. The Leaves Are Falling From The Trees Like Burning Tears- The Wind Howls. Why Must You Mimic Them?

The Earth Swirls Down Through The Ominous Moons Of Preconsidered Generations.

To Live At All Is Miracle Enough.

For What Use Are Books To Anyone Whose Days Are Like A Rook's Nest With Every Twig A Duty.

What Is Time... That You Speak Of It So Subserviently? Are We To Be The Slaves Of The Sun, That Second-hand, Overrated Knob Of Gilt, Or Of His Sister, That Fatuous Circle Of Silver Paper? A Curse Upon Their Ridiculous Dictatorship!