And recognition's greeting Blossoms from our weekly meeting. That I was who I seemed to be. On my part, well - I always must Believe the bank will not go bust. By which I mean that part of all Which we loosely call our soul. We fall into the endless pit.
Faith is the only guarantee, Where risk is all, of our integrity.
A boy might see A solitary unicorn. Hell's concrete bobbin had unwound Over the face of Albion Taking tinned people over all the ground That once was sacred and unvisited. The little people still Distilled the early dew. And in the inns a tale Could be imbibed with flagons of real ale. And I lived in the age When blowing smoke-rings with a pipe was art.