I listened to this again, particularly was reminded of the final stanza of Yeats' poem "Circus Animal's Desertion", that sort of defines post-modernism as well as looks back on his career. Those masterful images because complete Grew in pure mind but out of what began? A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street, Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can, Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone I must lie down where all the ladders start In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. I think to me at least, the listing of the songs is sifting through the foul rag and bone shop.