The Future Can Ever Promise But One

I Warn You All, Hatred Is Finding Fertile Soil Within Me. And In Your Compassion, In Your Every Good Intention, You Nurture It.

I Hear Seven Cities Natives Grow Fruit Just So They Can Eat The Larvae In Them.

Wise Words Are Like Arrows Flung At Your Forehead. What Do You Do? Why, You Duck Of Course.

So You Say, With Your Shiny Hair And Pouty Lips - And Those Breasts - Just Wait Till You Start Dropping Whelps, They'll Be At Your Ankles One Day, Big As They Are - Not The Whelps, The Breasts. The Whelps Will Be In Your Hair - No, Not The Shiny Hair On Your Head, Well, Yes, That Hair, But Only As A Manner Of Speech.

I Mean The Only Thing Us Dead Soldiers Got In Common Is That None Of Us Was Good Enough Or Lucky Enough To Survive The Fight. We're A Host Of Failures.