We Were Not Born To Sue, But

There Is Nothing So Confining As The Prisons Of Our Own Perceptions.

Thou Shalt Be Free As Mountain Winds: But Then Exactly Do All Points Of My Command.

Under The Greenwood Tree, Who Loves To Lie With Me And Tune His Merry Note, Unto The Sweet Bird's Throat; Come Hither, Come Hither, Come Hither. Here Shall He See No Enemy But Winter And Rough Weather.

In Thy Foul Throat Thou Liest.

A King Of Infinite Space