Hold your head up to the gun of a million cathode ray tubes aired at your tiny skull.
Take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.
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.
The sand-castle virtues are all swept away in the tidal destruction, the moral melee.
I don't know about carry out, but you can carry me off to bed.
In the beginning Man created God: and in the image of Man created he him.