He was born with a stinging tail and a forked tongue Lies where his currency and the fiddle he did play Tax the poor And give unfair pardon to rich was his creed But fair readers see
The only way out of the conceptual frame work of thought is either into coherence or total incoherence during sleep or at the moment of death or mastered though meditation.
You are always with me As I am always with you We endured fate looking on to tomorrow Until tomorrow ended A type of faith holds me to you For my faith is not in the world
