Young People Are Thoughtless As A Rule.

Close To The Gates A Spacious Garden Lies, From The Storms Defended And Inclement Skies; Four Acres Was The Allotted Space Of Ground, Fenc'd With A Green Enclosure All Around. Tall Thriving Trees Confessed The Fruitful Mold: The Reddening Apple Ripens Here To Gold, Here The Blue Fig With Luscious Juice Overflows, With Deeper Red The Full Pomegranate Glows, The Branch Here Bends Beneath The Weighty Pear, And Verdant Olives Flourish Round The Year.

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.

The Minds Of The Everlasting Gods Are Not Changed Suddenly.

Do Not Beg Me By Knees Or By Parents You Dog! I Only Wish I Were Savagely Wrathful Enough To Hack Up Your Corpse And Eat It Raw

If It Doesn't Have Siamese Twins In A Jar, It Is Not A Fair.