Love, I Find, Is Like Singing. Everybody

Folklore Is The Boiled-down Juice, Or Pot-likker, Of Human Living.

Most Things Are Born In The Mothering Darkness And Most Things Die. Darkness Is The Womb Of Creation, My Boy. But The Sun With His Seven Horns Of Flame Is The Father Of Life.

To A Haughty Belly, Kindness Is Hard To Swallow And Harder To Digest.

If It Was So Honorable And Glorious To Be Black, Why Was It The Yellow-skinned People Among Us Had So Much Prestige?

The Game Of Keeping What One Has Is Never So Exciting As The Game Of Getting.