If you were to believe the news reports,
someone’s always trying to do something.
There are many histories of war, none of peace.
(Oh, all right, unless you wanna count The Guest Book at a funeral home.)
First verse: “Sometimes I fear that being clever isn’t clever.”
Second verse: “Sometimes I fear that being clever isn’t enough.”
Chorus: “Sometimes I fear that enough isn’t enough.”
(If you’re interested, the antidote to this tune is to know
that enough is enough, and likewise all between.)
Episodes are no friend to the Revolutionist.
(Oh, and beginnings and endings ain’t much of anything either.)
Under local conditions, I guess, “Being a Saint Peter to a Jesus,” or a
“Boswell to a Johnson,” is better than nothing for a second rate talent.
(In fact, a certain City critic, in his own quaint way, wrapped it quite nicely
in a variation by noting, “The best thing about this job, is that by getting
to make such personal comments about the ‘great,’ you can almost
imagine you actually know them.”)