I Would Rather Start A Family Than

Between The Years Of Ninety-two And A Hundred And Two, However, We Shall Be The Ribald, Useless, Drunken, Outcast Person We Have Always Wished To Be. We Shall Have A Long White Beard And Long White Hair; We Shall Not Walk At All, But Recline In A Wheel Chair And Bellow For Alcoholic Beverages; In The Winter We Shall Sit Before The Fire With Our Feet In A Bucket Of Hot Water, A Decanter Of Corn Whiskey Near At Hand, And Write Ribald Songs Against Organized Society... We Look Forward To A Disreputable, Vigorous, Unhonoured, And Disorderly Old Age.

I Get Up In The Morning With An Idea For A Three-volume Novel And By Nightfall It's A Paragraph In My Column.

What Man Calls Civilizationalways Results In Desertsman Is Never On The Squarehe Uses Up The Fat And Greenery Of The Eartheach Generation Wastes A Little Moreof The Future With Greed And Lust For Riches

This Is Another Day! Are Its Eyes Blurred With Maudlin Grief For Any Wasted Past? A Thousand Thousand Failures Shall Not Daunt! Let Dust Clasp Dust, Death, Death; I Am Alive!

By The Time A Bartender Knows What Drink A Man Will Have Before He Orders, There Is Little Else About Him Worth Knowing.