In The End Is My

Uncorseted, Her Friendly Bust Gives Promise Of Pneumatic Bliss.

To Country People Cows Are Mild, And Flee From Any Stick They Throw; But I’m A Timid Town Bred Child, And All The Cattle Seem To Know.

Talent Imitates, But Genius Steals.

All Time Is Unreedemable.

There Is No Absolute Point Of View From Which Real And Ideal Can Be Finally Separated And Labelled.