A House Is Not A

By Neglecting Our Garden, We Are Storing Up For Ourselves, In The Not Very Distant Future, A World Catastrophe As Bad As Any Atomic War, And We Are Doing It With All The Bland Complacency Of An Idiot Child Chopping Up A Rembrandt With A Pair Of Scissors.

Among The Myrtles The Mantids Moved, Lightly, Carefully, Swaying Slightly, The Quintessence Of Evil. They Were Lank And Green, With Chinless Faces And Monstrous Globular Eyes, Frosty Gold, With An Expression Of Intense, Predatory Madness In Them. The Crooked Arms, With Their Fringes Of Sharp Teeth, Would Be Raised In Mock Supplication To The Insect World, So Humble, So Fervent, Trembling Slightly When A Butterfly Flew Too Close.

Animals Generally Return The Love You Lavish On Them By A Swift Bite In Passing-not Unlike Friends And Wives.

‎'all We Need Is A Book,' Roared Leslie; 'don't Panic, Hit 'em With A Book.

Erosion, Desertification, And Pollution Have Become Our Lot. It Is A Weird Form Of Suicide, For We Are Bleeding Our Planet To Death.