Lay Me On An Anvil,

Let The Gentle Bush Dig Its Root Deep And Spread Upward To Split The Boulder.

Poetry Is A Kinetic Arrangement Of Static Syllables.

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.

The Sea Speaks A Language Polite People Never Repeat. It Is A Colossal Scavenger Slang And Has No Respect.

Freedom Is Baffling: Men Having It Often Know Not They Have It Till It Is Gone And They No Longer Have It.