If The Writer Does Not Cry, The

I Cut My Own Hair. I Got Sick Of Barbers Because They Talk Too Much. And Too Much Of Their Talk Was About My Hair Coming Out.

There Is Little Much Beyond The Grave, But The Strong Are Saying Nothing Until They See.

One Luminary Clock Against The Sky Proclaimed The Time Was Neither Wrong Nor Right.

States Strong Enough To Do Good Are But Few. Their Number Would Seem Limited To Three.

Come Grow Old With Me, For The Best Is Yet To Come!