The Leader, Mingling With The Vulgar Host,

First You Don't Want Me To Get The Pony, Then You Want Me To Take It Back. Make Up Your Mind!

From Now On Walking Is My Beer And Feeling Good Is My Hangover.

The Windy Satisfaction Of The Tongue.

Bursts As A Wave That From The Clouds Impends, And Swell'd With Tempests On The Ship Descends; White Are The Decks With Foam; The Winds Aloud Howl O'er The Masts, And Sing Through Every Shroud: Pale, Trembling, Tir'd, The Sailors Freeze With Fears; And Instant Death On Every Wave Appears.

And When Long Years And Seasons Wheeling Brought Around That Point Of Time Ordained For Him To Make His Passage Homeward, Trials And Dangers, Even So, Attended Him Even In Ithaca, Near Those He Loved.