Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.

History Has To Live With What Was Here, Clutching And Close To Fumbling All We Had - It Is So Dull And Gruesome How We Die, Unlike Writing, Life Never Finishes.

Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O Wind Blow Cold, O Wind Blow Hot