Dear Mary: We all knew you had it in you.
All those writers who write about their own childhood! Gentle God, if I wrote about mine you wouldn't sit in the same room with me.
I've finally gotten to the bottom of things.
People ought to be one of two things, young or dead.
Some men break your heart in two, Some men fawn and flatter, Some men never look at you; And that cleans up the matter.
If I should labor through daylight and dark, Consecrate, valorous, serious, true, Then on the world I may blazon my mark; And what if I don't, and what if I do?