We Cannot All Hope To

The Bitter Dregs Of Fortune's Cup To Drain.

I Long For Home, Long For The Sight Of Home.

Our Fruitless Labours Mourn, And Only Rich In Barren Fame Return.

The Other Day, I Was So Desperate For A Beer, I Snuck Into The Football Stadium And Ate The Dirt Under The Bleachers.

There Will Be Killing Till The Score Is Paid.