I Can't Write, I Can't

I Can't Write, I Can't Paint, I Don't Compose.

On My Last Day Of Shooting, I'd Be Happy To Say 'cut, It's A Wrap' And Fall Off The Twig.

I Do Not Have A Brain That I Long For In Dealing With Matters Of Which I Am Ignorant, That Don't Come Within My Ken And A Rationale, A Reason, And Argument And So On, And I Can't Do That And I'm Not In That Bracket At All.

At My Age The Only Problem Is With Remembering Names. When I Call Everyone Darling, It Has Damn All To Do With Passionately Adoring Them, But I Know I'm Safe Calling Them That. Although, Of Course, I Adore Them Too.

What I Am Sad About Is That There Is Now, In America, No Equivalent To The Art Circuit.