My first love was Cinderella, but she ran off with another man.

My love runs by like a day in June, And he makes no friends of sorrows. He'll tread his galloping rigadoon In the pathway of the morrows. He'll live his days where the sunbeams start, Nor could storm or wind uproot him. My own dear love, he is all my heart, -- And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

And where does she find them?

I find her anecdotes more efficacious than sheep-counting, rain on a tin roof, or alanol tablets.... you will find me and Morpheus, off in a corner, necking.

There are times when images blow to fluff, and comparisons stiffen and shrivel.

If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?

There was nothing separate about her days. Like drops on the window-pane, they ran together and trickled away.