I'm Not Strange, Weird, Off, Nor Crazy,

Who Can Tell Whether The Parallelogram, Which In Our Ignorance We Have Defined And Drawn, And The Whole Of Whose Properties We Profess To Know, May Not Be All The While Panting For Exterior Angles, Sympathetic With The Interior, Or Sullenly Repining At The Fact That It Cannot Be Inscribed In A Circle?

Will You, Won't You, Will You, Won't You, Will You Join The Dance?

All That Matters Is What We Do For Each Other.

And Ever, As The Story Drained The Wells Of Fancy Dry, And Faintly Strove That Weary One To Put The Subject By, "the Rest Next Time--" "it Is Next Time!" The Happy Voice Cry. Thus Grew The Tale Of Wonderland

I'd Give All The Wealth That Years Have Piled, The Slow Result Of Life's Decay, To Be Once More A Little Child For One Bright Summer Day.