the world is too little for usfor our merchants and tenantsour lands and all our loveswrapped up in paperI would not open it to seewhat gold could doa loss I could hardly bearbut for infinite comfort
looking over papersmy gaze is as lostas a lost footon a road like a held tonguea man can sit so longhe is a stranger to the lightshow me a broadsideready to burn down Mondayfind me an F U C Kthose four letters born in a whip