"In the autumn of my madness when my hair is turning grey
for the milk has finally curdled and I've nothing left to say
When all my thoughts are spoken (save my last departing birds)
bring all my friends unto me and I'll strangle them with words
In the autumn of my madness which in coming won't be long
for the nights are now much darker and the daylight's not so strong
and the things which I believed in are no longer quite enough
for the knowing is much harder and the going's getting rough"

Procol Harum '68

BTW: Ayre's let the Birch Society hold us hostage in assembly, but didn't let SDS come down from Ann Arbor -- what was that all about?