I Can Remember Only A Few Of

Our Lives Are Like A Candle In The Wind.

Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

I Am! I Have Come Through! I Belong!

What If They Gave A War And Nobody Came?

So I Turn Once More To Those Who Sneer At This My City, And I Give Them Back The Sneer And Say To Them: Come And Show Me Another City With Lifted Head Singing So Proud To Be Alive And Coarse And Strong And Cunning.