Pity The Planet, All Joy

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

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

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

I'm Sure That Writing Isn't A Craft, That Is, Something For Which You Learn The Skills And Go On Turning Out. It Must Come From Some Deep Impulse, Deep Inspiration. That Can't Be Taught, It Can't Be What You Use In Teaching.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone