Hail, High Excess Especially In Wine, To Thee In Worship Do I Bend The Knee Who Preach Abstemiousness Unto Me My Skull Thy Pulpit, As My Paunch Thy Shrine. Precept On Precept, Aye, And Line On Line, Could Ne'er Persuade So Sweetly To Agree With Reason As Thy Touch, Exact And Free, Upon My Forehead And Along My Spine. At Thy Command Eschewing Pleasure's Cup, With The Hot Grape I Warm No More My Wit; When On Thy Stool Of Penitence I Sit I'm Quite Converted, For I Can't Get Up. Ungrateful He Who Afterward Would Falter To Make New Sacrifices At Thine Altar!
I'm Tired Of Being Ruled By The Skull And Bones. The Only Place They Belong Are On Punk-rock Albums!
The Destiny Of Every Human Being Is Decided By What Goes On Inside His Skull When Confronted By What Goes On Outside His Skull.
I've Always Envied People Who Sleep Easily. Their Brains Must Be Cleaner, The Floorboards Of The Skull Well Swept, All The Little Monsters Closed Up In A Steamer Trunk At The Foot Of The Bed.
Operating Superficially, The Mind Is Random In Its Activity And Stale In Its Insights And Images. However, With Practice And Experience The Mind Is Freed From The Skull, And The Fresh And New Can Appear As Though For The First Time. It
In Los Angeles, The Jury In The Reginald Denny Beating Trial, After Much Thinking, Concludes, That Person A Is Not Necessarily Trying To Kill Person B Just Because Person A Happens To Very Deliberately Bash Person B's Skull In With A Brick. The Verdict Is Applauded By Scientists At The Tobacco Institute.
Hell Is Out Of Fashion --institutional Hells At Any Rate. The Populated Infernos Of The 20th Century Are More Private Affairs, The Gaps Between The Bars Are The Sutures Of One's Own Skull. . .
Hell Is Out Of Fashion - Institutional Hells At Any Rate. The Populated Infernos Of The 20th Century Are More Private Affairs, The Gaps Between The Bars Are The Sutures Of One's Own Skull. A Valid Hell Is One From Which There Is A Possibility Of Redemption, Even If This Is Never Achieved, The Dungeons Of An Architecture Of Grace Whose Spires Point To Some Kind Of Heaven. The Institutional Hells Of The Present Century Are Reached With One-way Tickets, Marked Nagasaki And Buchenwald, Worlds Of Terminal Horror Even More Final Than The Grave.
