Since The Printing Press Came Into Being,

Man With His Burning Soul Has But An Hour Of Breath To Build A Ship Of Truth In Which His Soul May Sail- Sail On The Sea Of Death. For Death Takes Toll Of Beauty, Courage, Youth, Of All But Truth.

His Face Was Filled With Broken Commandments.

Life Is A Long Headache In A Noisy Street.

I Must Down To The Seas Again, To The Vagrant Gypsy Life, To The Gull's Way And The Whale's Way Where The Wind's Like A Whetted Knife And All I Ask Is A Merry Yarn From A Laughing Fellow Rover, And Quiet Sleep And A Sweet Dream When The Long Trick's Over.

The Thames Is A Wretched River After The Mersey And The Ships Are Not Like Liverpool Ships And The Docks Are Barren Of Beauty ... It Is A Beastly Hole After Liverpool; For Liverpool Is The Town Of My Heart And I Would Rather Sail A Mudflat There Than Command A Clipper Out Of London