In The Church Of My Heart The

If An American Is Motoring On His Own, He (the Paragon Of Morality And Chastity) Will Slow Down And Stop Beside Every Solitary Pretty Female Pedestrian, Bare His Teeth In A Big Smile, And Tempt Her Into His Car With A Wild Roll Of The Eyes. A Lady Who Fails To Appreciate His Passion Will Qualify As An Idiot Who Doesn't Realise How Lucky She Is To Have The Opportunity Of Getting To Know The Owner Of This 100-horse-power Motor Car.

To Us Love Says Humming That The Heart's Stalled Motor Has Begun Working Again.

My Verse Has Brought Me No Roubles To Spare: No Craftsmen Have Made Mahogany Chairs For My House.

In Our Language Rhyme Is A Barrel. A Barrel Of Dynamite. The Line Is A Fuse. The Line Smoulders To The End And Explodes; And The Town Is Blown Sky-high In A Stanza.

Comrade Life, Let Us March Faster, March Faster Through What's Left Of The Five-year Plan.