I Hate To Tell Again A Tale

I'm A Spalding Gray In A Rick Dees World.

Like Leaves On Trees The Race Of Man Is Found,- Now Green In Youth, Now Withering On The Ground; Another Race The Following Spring Supplies: They Fall Successive, And Successive Rise.

Wine Lead To Folly, Making Even The Wise To Laugh Immoderately, To Dance, And To Utter What Had Better Have Been Kept Silent.

I Can't Even Say The Word 'titmouse' Without Giggling Like A Schoolgirl.

And Woe Succeeds Woe.