One Man's Bane Is Another's Bliss.

What Do I Know Of Cultured Ways, The Gilt, The Craft And The Lie? I, Who Was Born In A Naked Land And Bred In The Open Sky. The Subtle Tongue, The Sophist Guile, They Fail When The Broadswords Sing; Rush In And Die, Dogs—i Was A Man Before I Was A King.

I'm Not Going Out Of My Way Looking For Devils; But I Wouldn't Step Out Of My Path To Let One Go By.

Coming, As I Do, From Mountain Folk On One Side And Sea Followers On The Other, There Are Few Old Songs Of The Hills Or The Sea With Which I Am Not Familiar.

In This World Men Struggle And Suffer Vainly, Finding Pleasure Only In The Bright Madness Of Battle; Dying, Their Souls Enter A Gray Misty Realm Of Clouds And Icy Winds, To Wander Cheerlessly Throughout Eternity.

Musings The Little Poets Sing Of Little Things: Hope, Cheer, And Faith, Small Queens And Puppet Kings; Lovers Who Kissed And Then Were Made As One, And Modest Flowers Waving In The Sun. The Mighty Poets Write In Blood And Tears And Agony That, Flame-like, Bites And Sears. They Reach Their Mad Blind Hands Into The Night, To Plumb Abysses Dead To Human Sight; To Drag From Gulfs Where Lunacy Lies Curled, Mad, Monstrous Nightmare Shapes To Blast The World. [click On The Thumbnail By Jack "king" Kirby]