Our Fruitless Labours Mourn, And Only Rich

Like A Girl, A Baby Running After Her Mother, Begging To Be Picked Up, And She Tugs On Her Skirts, Holding Her Back As She Tries To Hurry Off—all Tears, Fawning Up At Her, Till She Takes Her In Her Arms… That’s How You Look, Patroclus, Streaming Live Tears.

That Is The Gods' Work, Spinning Threads Of Death Through The Lives Of Mortal Men, An All To Make A Song For Those To Come.

To Heal Divisions, To Relieve The Oppress'd, In Virtue Rich; In Blessing Others, Bless'd.

Remember That Postcard Grandpa Sent Us From Florida Of That Alligator Biting That Woman's Bottom? That's Right, We All Thought It Was Hilarious. But, It Turns Out We Were Wrong. That Alligator Was Sexually Harassing That Woman.

The Journey Is Its Own Reward.