The Award Of A Pure Gold Medal

Poet, Never Chase The Dream. Laugh Yourself And Turn Away. Mask Your Hunger, Let It Seem Small Matter If He Come Or Stay; But When He Nestles In Your Hand At Last, Close Up Your Fingers Tight And Hold Him Fast.

So When I'm Killed, Don't Wait For Me, Walking The Dim Corridor; In Heaven Or Hell, Don't Wait For Me, Or You Must Wait For Evermore. You'll Find Me Buried, Living-dead In These Verses That You've Read.

The Decline Of True Taste For Food Is The Beginning Of A Decline In A National Culture As A Whole. When People Have Lost Their Authentic Personal Taste, They Lose Their Personality And Become The Instruments Of Other People's Wills.

We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.

Before An Attack, The Platoon Pools All Its Available Cash And The Survivors Divide It Up Afterwards. Those Who Are Killed Can't Complain, The Wounded Would Have Given Far More Than That To Escape As They Have, And The Unwounded Regard The Money As A Consolation Prize For Still Being Here.