Jazz: Music invented for the torture of imbeciles.

Oh, it's home again and home again, America for me! I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling sea To the blessed land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome; But when it comes to living, there is no place like home.

The best rose-bush, after all, is not that which has the fewest thorns, but that which bears the finest roses.

What do I owe my father? Everything!

The shadow by my finger cast Divides the future from the past: Before it, sleeps the unborn hour, In darkness, and beyond thy power. Behind its unreturning line, The vanished hour, no longer thine: One hour alone is in thy hands,- The NOW on which the shadow stands.

O' who will walk with me along lifes merry way? A comrade blithe and full of glee, who dares to laugh out loud and free.