Imprisoned In A Cage Of Sound, Even

I Don't Think I Am Any Good. If I Thought I Was Any Good, I Wouldn't Be.

Now If The Harvest Is Over, And The World Cold, Give Me The Bonus Of Laughter, As I Lose Hold.

Oh Wasn't It Naughty Of Smudges? Oh, Mummy, I'm Sick With Disgust. She Threww Me In Front Of The Judges, And My Silly Old Collar-bone's Bust.

Hymns Are The Poetry Of The People.

People's Backyards Are Much More Interesting Than Their Front Gardens, And Houses That Back On To Railways Are Public Benefactors.