We Battle On In Words, As Always,

Whoever Obeys The Gods, To Him They Particularly Listen.

Now From The Smooth Deep Ocean-stream The Sun Began To Climb The Heavens, And With New Rays Smote The Surrounding Fields.

The Skin Of The Coward Changes Color All The Time, He Can't Get A Grip On Himself, He Can't Sit Still, He Squats And Rocks, Shifting His Weight From Foot To Foot, His Heart Racing, Pounding Inside The Fellow's Ribs, His Teeth Chattering. He Dreads Some Grisly Death. But The Skin Of A Brave Soldier Never Blanches. He's All Control. Tense But No Great Fear.

Which Would You Rather Be, A Conqueror In The Olympic Games, Or The Crier That Proclaims Who Are Conquerors?

Nothing Shall I, While Sane, Compare With A Friend.