Pa was forced to be a hobo
Because he played the oboe
And the oboe it is clearly understood
Is an ill wind that nobody blows good
To begin at the beginning: It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent…
We didn't have metaphors in our day. We didn't beat about the bush.
When I find myself in the company of scientists, I feel like a shabby curate who has strayed by mistake…