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.

I'm not a writer with a drinking problem, I'm a drinker with a writing problem.

You do what you can, and you do it because you should. But all you can do is all you can do.

She can sit up and beg, and she can give her paw — I don't say she will, but she can.

Los Angeles: Seventy-two suburbs in search of a city.

If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me.

There was a reason for the cost of those perfectly plain black dresses.