Poetry Is What Milton Saw When He

An Idea Isn't Responsible For The People Who Believe In It.

Blood Will Tell, But Often It Tells Too Much.

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

I Suppose The Human Race Is Doing The Best It Can But Hells Bells Thats Only An Explanation Its Not An Excuse.

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.