I Tend Not To Analyse My Work,

If They Had Said My Writing Wasn't Good Enough, Fair Enough, That's An Opinion. But To Say It's Too Complex Is To Insult The Intelligence Of The So-called Young.

How Massively The Mountains Stand, While Low To The Ground The Sand Blows. The Sand Blows On And On. And Then There Are No Mountains, None At All, The Sand Has Kissed And Whispered Them Away. And Still, The Sand Blows On.

The Humble Were The Elect Of God. Did Not The Priests Teach So, In Their Gemmed, Kingly Robes, From Their Towering Pulpits?

Flat Or Round, There Has Always Been Hate In The World.

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Get The Blame For Being What It Is-- The Colour Of A Kiss, The Shadow Of A Flame. A Rose May Earn Another Name, So Call It Love; So Call It Love I Will, And Love Is Like The Sea, Which Changes Constantly, And Yet Is Still The Same.