I take you and pile high the memories. Death will break her claws on some I keep.

Money is power, freedom, a cushion, the root of all evil, the sum of blessings.

I take you and pile high the memories. Death will break her claws on some I keep.

Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.

Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.

Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell me what is happiness. And I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men. They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying to fool with them. And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river and I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.