I May Say That I

Winter Is The Time For Comfort, For Good Food And Warmth, For The Touch Of A Friendly Hand And For A Talk Beside The Fire: It Is The Time For Home. It Is No Season In Which To Wander The World As If One Were The Wind Blowing Aimlessly Along The Streets Without A Place To Rest, Without Food, And Without Time Meaning Anything To One, Just As Time Means Nothing To The Wind.

Still Falls The Rain - Dark As The World Of Man, Black As Our Loss - Blind As The Nineteen Hundred And Forty Nails Upon The Cross.

Said The Sun To The Moon-'when You Are But A Lonely White Crone, And I, A Dead King In My Golden Armour Somewhere In A Dark Wood, Remember Only This Of Our Hopeless Love That Never Till Time Is Done Will The Fire Of The Heart And The Fire Of The Mind Be One

Picasso Was A Delightful, Kindly, Friendly, Simple Little Man. When I Met Him He Was Extremely Excited And Overjoyed That His Mother-in-law Had Just Died, And He Was Looking Forward To The Funeral.

I'm Not The Man To Baulk At A Low Smell, I'm Not The Man To Insist On Asphodel. This Sounds Like A He-fellow, Don't You Think? It Sounds Like That. I Belch, I Bawl, I Drink.