People Living Alone Get Used

Take Off That Darn Fur Coat!...or Maybe You'd Like To Have Us Open All The Windows.

Art Isn't Meaningless... It Is In Itself. It Isn't In That It Tries To Make Life Less So.

Talk English To Me, Tommy. Parlez Francais Avec Moi, Nicole. But The Meanings Are Different-- In French You Can Be Heroic And Gallant With Dignity, And You Know It. But In English You Can't Be Heroic And Gallant Without Being A Little Absurd, And You Know That Too. That Gives Me An Advantage.

There Was One Of His Lonelinesses Coming, One Of Those Times When He Walked The Streets Or Sat, Aimless And Depressed, Biting A Pencil At His Desk. It Was A Self-absorption With No Comfort, A Demand For Expression With No Outlet, A Sense Of Time Rushing By, Ceaselessly And Wastefully - Assuaged Only By That Conviction That There Was Nothing To Waste, Because All Efforts And Attainments Were Equally Valueless.

When Vanity Kissed Vanity, A Hundred Happy Junes Ago, He Pondered O'er Her Breathlessly, And, That All Men Might Ever Know, He Rhymed Her Eyes With Life And Death: "thru Time I'll Save My Love!" He Said. . . Yet Beauty Vanished With His Breath, And, With Her Lovers, She Was Dead. . . -ever His Wit And Not Her Eyes, Ever His Art And Not Her Hair: "who'd Learn A Trick In Rhyme, Be Wise And Pause Before His Sonnet There". . . So All My Words, However True, Might Sing You To A Thousandth June, And No One Ever Know That You Were Beauty For An Afternoon.