Pity The Planet, All Joy

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

If Youth Is A Defect, It Is One We Outgrow Too Soon.

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

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

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.