Shame Is The Feeling You Have When

Drum On Your Drums, Batter On Your Banjos, Sob On The Long Cool Winding Saxophones. Go To It, O Jazzmen.

Poetry Is A Type-font Design For An Alphabet Of Fun, Hate, Love, Death.

There Are Ten Men In Me And I Do Not Know Or Understand One Of Them.

After The Sunset On The Prairie, There Are Only The Stars

History Is A Living Horse Laughing At A Wooden Horse. History Is A Wind Blowing Where It Listeth. History Is No Sure Thing To Bet On. History Is A Box Of Tricks With A Lost Key. History Is A Labyrinth Of Doors With Sliding Panels, A Book Of Ciphers With The Code In A Cave Of The Saragossa Sea. History Says, If It Pleases, Excuse Me, I Beg Your Pardon, It Will Never Happen Again If I Can Help It.