I'm Not A Pitiable Creature. It's Just

He's Swept With The Broom Of Contempt And The Rooms Have An Empty Ring.

Bows And Flows Of Angel Hair And Ice Cream Castles In The Air And Feather Canyons Everywhere, I've Looked At Clouds That Way.

Rationally I Have No Hope, Irrationally I Believe In Miracles.

There Are Things To Confess That Enrich The World, And Things That Need Not Be Said.

There Was This Mountain Village In Russia Where My Music Was Getting In On Some German Radio Station. I Remember This Because Music Used To Get Up To Saskatchewan From Texas. Late At Night After The Local Station Closed Down.