In This Life He Laughs

Oh Some Are Fond Of Spanish Wine, And Some Are Fond Of French.

Man Cannot Call The Brimming Instant Back; Time's An Affair Of Instants Spun To Days; If Man Must Make An Instant Gold, Or Black, Let Him, He May; But Time Must Go His Ways. Life May Be Duller For An Instant's Blaze. Life's An Affair Of Instants Spun To Years, Instants Are Only Cause Of All These Tears.

So Shall I Fight, So Shall I Tread, In This Long War Beneath The Stars; So Shall A Glory Wreathe My Head, So Shall I Faint And Show The Scars, Until This Case, This Clogging Mould, Be Smithied All To Kingly Gold.

Only The Road And The Dawn, The Sun, The Wind, And The Rain, And The Watch Fire Under Stars, And Sleep, And The Road Again.

It Ought To Have Gangsters, And Aeroplanes And A Lot Of Automatic Pistols.