A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.
The shamans are forever yacking about their snake oil miracles. I prefer the real McCoy, a pregnant woman.
Everybody lies about sex.
When you're rich, you don't have friends; you just have endless acquaintances.
He's as weird as snake's suspenders but sweet as a stolen kiss, too.
The golden sunshine of Italy congealed into tears. Here's to alcoholic brotherhood ... much more suited to the frail human soul, if any, than any other sort.