I Never Made A Mistake

Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

My Room For Books And Study Or For Sitting And Thinking About Nothing In Particular To See What Would Happen Was At The End Of A Hall.

The Fog Comes On Little Cat Feet. It Sits Looking Over The Harbor And City On Silent Haunches And Then Moves On.

Slang Is A Language That Rolls Up Its Sleeves, Spits On Its Hands And Goes To Work.

When One Has The Right Swing And Enthusiasm, Selling Is Not Unlike Hunting, A Veritable Sport. To Scare Up The Game By Preliminary Talk And To Know How Long To Follow It, To Lose Your Gain Through Poorly Directed Argument, To Hang On To Game That Finally Eludes, To Boldly Confront, To Quickly Circle Around, To Keep On The Trail, Tireless And Keen, Till You Have Bagged Some Orders, There Is Some Satisfaction In Returning At Night, Tired Of The Trail, But Proud Of The Days Work Done.