Write out of love, write out of instinct, write out of reason. But always for money.

She has something to say about what life is like-which is all we ask of poetry.

It takes a heap o' children to make a home that's true, And home can be a palace grand, or just a plain, old shoe; But if it has a mother dear, and a good old dad or two, Why, that's the sort of good old home for good old me and you

Laughter shall drown the raucous shout;
And, though these shelt

Nothing but blackness aboveAnd nothing that moves but the cars...God, if you wish for our love,Fling us a handful of stars! - Caliban in the Coal Mines.

Nothing but blackness above
And nothing that moves but the cars...
God, if you wish for our love,
Fling us a handful of stars!