Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast

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

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

Most Poetry Is Very Formal, But When A Modern Poet Is Formal He Gets More Attention For It Than Old Poets Did.

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

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.