It Is Not My Fault That Certain

Let Nature Do The Freezing And Frightening And Isolating In This World. Let Men Work And Love And Fight It Off.

To Think That So Much Comes To So Little, To Think That Life Is Really Short.

Details Are The Life Of Prose.

It Was The Work Of The Quiet Mountains, This Torrent Of Purity At My Feet.

The Cowboy Music Twanged In The Roadhouse And Carried Across The Fields, All Sadness. It Was All Right With Me. I Kissed My Baby And We Put Out The Lights.