What a child-like pique was the one romantic, blowing and blustering with high decour the trumpet of his love.

To lament the loss of words as many a poets do, and their replacement for less "warm, healtier ones:" lunatic for insane, schizoid for devil-worhispper, paranoid for suspicious, and different for astray.

Oh the woe of the manchild's loss, displaced once again from his newly planted tomb.

His ideas again stumped by the rebellious nature of the scientist craft and the resltless oppressed, forgotten mass, he, the rich intellectual white man must again rally against the future and beckon with grease covered fingers to the past.

How very tragic, how very pitiable, that he will lament forever the sad mockery that is the snowglobe of his last world. Once where his father like him used to complain for the previous model's loss, long before his cheeks insulted this one to be brought.