A Boy Without Mischief Is Like A

It Is Not Right To Glory In The Slain

To Be Loved, You Have To Be Nice To People, Everyday. But To Be Hated, You Don't Have To Do Squat!

The Sex Is Ever To A Soldier Kind.

Down From His Brow She Ran His Curls Like Thick Hyacinth Clusters Full Of Blooms

Now From His Breast Into The Eyes The Ache Of Longing Mounted, And He Wept At Last, His Dear Wife, Clear And Faithful, In His Arms, Longed For As The Sunwarmed Earth Is Longed For By A Swimmer Spent In Rough Water Where His Ship Went Down Under Poseidon's Blows, Gale Winds And Tons Of Sea. Few Men Can Keep Alive Through A Big Serf To Crawl, Clotted With Brine, On Kindly Beaches In Joy, In Joy, Knowing The Abyss Behind: And So She Too Rejoiced, Her Gaze Upon Her Husband, Her White Arms Round Him Pressed As Though Forever.