Too many heroes stepping on too many toes, too many yes-men nodding when they really mean no.

The sand-castle virtues are all swept away in the tidal destruction, the moral melee.

I'll make love to you in all good places, under black mountains and open spaces.

I'll pour a cup to you my darling, raise it up, say Cheerio.

Give us Direction; the best of goodwill; Put us in touch with fair winds. Sing to us softly, hum the evening's song. Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.

Snot is running down his nose, greasy fingers, smearing shabby clothes.

How can you laugh when your mother's hungry? How can you smile when the reasons for smiling are wrong?