Father Was Made For Romance.

It Is Apparent That Nations Cannot Exist For Us. They Are The Playthings Of Children, Such Toys As Children Break From Boredom And Weariness. The Branch Of A Tree Is My Country. My Freedom Sleeps In A Mulberry Bush. My Country Is In The Shivering Legs Of A Little Lost Dog.

I Am Pregnant With Song. My Body Aches But Do Not Betray Me. I Will Sing Songs And Hide Them Away. I Will Tear Them Into Bits And Throw Them In The Street. The Streets Of My City Are Full Of Dark Holes. I Will Hide My Songs In The Holes Of The Streets.

Sometimes I Think We Americans Are The Loneliest People In The World. To Be Sure, We Hunger For The Power Of Affection, The Self-acceptance That Gives Life. It Is The Oldest And Strongest Hunger In The World. But Hungering Is Not Enough.

The Writer, An Old Man With A White Moustache, Had Some Difficulty Getting Into Bed.

It Is Apparent That Nations Cannot Exist For Us. They Are The Playthings Of Children, Such Toys As Children Break From Boredom And Weariness. The Branch Of A Tree Is My Country. My Freedom Sleeps In A Mulberry Bush. My Country Is In The Shivering Legs Of A Little Lost Dog.