Arithmetic Is Where Numbers Fly

When I Was Writing Pretty Poor Poetry, This Girl With Midnight Black Hair Told Me To Go On.

Under The Summer Roses When The Flagrant Crimson Lurks In The Dusk Of The Wild Red Leaves, Love, With Little Hands, Comes And Touches You With A Thousand Memories, And Asks You Beautiful, Unanswerable Questions.

Here Is The Difference Between Dante, Milton, And Me. They Wrote About Hell And Never Saw The Place. I Wrote About Chicago After Looking The Town Over For Years And Years.

Calling It Off Comes Easy Enough If You Haven't Told The Girl You Are Smitten With Her.

Enough Small Empty Boxes Thrown Into A Big Empty Box Fill It Full.