Whenever A Man Is Tired, Wine Is

Marge, When I Join An Underground Cult I Expect A Little Support From My Family.

Youth Is Quick In Feeling But Weak In Judgement.

I Detest The Man Who Hides On Thing In The Depths Of His Heart And Speaks Forth Another.

Now Deep In Ocean Sunk The Lamp Of Light, And Drew Behind The Cloudy Vale Of Night.

Men In Their Generations Are Like The Leaves Of The Trees. The Wind Blows And One Year's Leaves Are Scattered On The Ground; But The Trees Burst Into Bud And Put On Fresh Ones When The Spring Comes Round.