Publishing A Volume Of Verse Is Like

A Little While With Grief And Laughter, And Then The Day Will Close; The Shadows Gather ... What Comes After No Man Knows.

Pity The Meek, For They Shall Inherit The Earth.

Every Cloud Has Its Silver Lining But It Is Sometimes A Little Difficult To Get It To The Mint.

There Was Once A Hindu Sage, Who Sat Down On The Banks Of The Ganges And Thought For Seventy Years About The Millennium. Just As He Arrived At The Solution And Was Putting It Into Verse, A Mosquito Stung Him And He Forgot It Again At Once.

Between The Years Of Ninety-two And A Hundred And Two, However, We Shall Be The Ribald, Useless, Drunken, Outcast Person We Have Always Wished To Be. We Shall Have A Long White Beard And Long White Hair; We Shall Not Walk At All, But Recline In A Wheel Chair And Bellow For Alcoholic Beverages; In The Winter We Shall Sit Before The Fire With Our Feet In A Bucket Of Hot Water, A Decanter Of Corn Whiskey Near At Hand, And Write Ribald Songs Against Organized Society... We Look Forward To A Disreputable, Vigorous, Unhonoured, And Disorderly Old Age.