Men Grow Tired Of Sleep, Love, Singing

I Am So Smart. I Am So Smart. I Am So Smart. S-m-r-t ... Uh, I Mean S-m-a-r-t.

I Would Rather Be Tied To The Soil As A Serf... Than Be King Of All These Dead And Destroyed.

Is He Not Sacred, Even To The Gods, The Wandering Man Who Comes In Weariness?

...if Fifty Bands Of Men Surrounded Us/ And Every Sword Sang For Your Blood,/ You Could Make Off Still With Their Cows And Sheep.

Reproach Is Infinite, And Knows No End So Voluble A Weapon Is The Tongue; Wounded, We Wound; And Neither Side Can Fail For Every Man Has Equal Strength To Rail.