Wherever The Catholic Sun Doth

It Seems To Be Saying Perpetually; 'i Am The End Of The Nineteenth Century; I Am Glad They Built Me Of Iron; Let Me Rust.' ... It Is Like A Passing Fool In A Crowd Of The University, A Buffoon In The Hall; For All The Things In Paris Has Made, It Alone Has Neither Wits Nor Soul.

I Shoot The Hippopotamus With Bullets Made Of Platinum, Because If I Use The Leaden One His Hide Is Sure To Flatten Em.

Just As There Is Nothing Between The Admirable Omelet And The Intolerable, So With Autobiography.

And The Men That Were Boys When I Was A Boy Shall Sit And Drink With Me.

Kings Live In Palaces, And Pigs In Sties, And Youth In Expectation. Youth Is Wise.