Even His Griefs Are A Joy Long

How Delicate Her Feet Who Shuns The Ground, Stepping A-tiptoe On The Heads Of Men.

If You Don't Like Your Job, You Don't Strike! You Just Go In Every Day, And Do It Really Half Assed. That's The American Way.

All Men Have Need Of The Gods.

And Rest At Last Where Souls Unbodied Dwell, In Ever-flowing Meads Of Asphodel.

Whatever Day Makes Man A Slave, Takes Half His Worth Away.