If All Good, Respectable People Had One

Love Was A Terrible Thing. You Poisoned It And Stabbed At It And Knocked It Down Into The Mud - Well Down - And It Got Up And Staggered On, Bleeding And Muddy And Awful. Like - Like Rasputin.

She’ll Have No Lover, For I Don’t Want Her And She’ll See No Other.

London Is Like A Cold Dark Dream Sometimes.

What You Take To Be Hyprocrisy Is Sometimes A Certain Caution, Sometimes Genuine, Though Ponderous, Childish, Sometimes A Mixture Of Both.

It Is Strange How Sad It Can Be - Sunlight In The Afternoon, Don't You Think?