The Wordy Tale, Once Told, Were Hard

Generations Of Men Are Like The Leaves. In Winter, Winds Blow Them Down To Earth, But Then, When Spring Season Comes Again, The Budding Wood Grows More. And So With Men: One Generation Grows, Another Dies Away.

Just Once I'd Like Someone To Call Me 'sir' Without Adding 'you're Making A Scene.'

How Vain, Without The Merit, Is The Name.

Here, Therefore, Huge And Mighty Warrior Though You Be, Here Shall You Die.

Yet While My Hector Still Survives, I See My Father, Mother, Brethren, All In Thee.