Now to me, Edith looks like something that would eat her young.
If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me.
Guns aren't lawful; nooses give; gas smells awful. So you might as well live.
If wild my breast and sore my pride, I bask in dreams of suicide, If cool my heart and high my head I think 'How lucky are the dead.
Should they whisper false of you, Never trouble to deny; Should the words they say be true, Weep and storm and say they lie.
Hold your pen and spare your voice.