Poetry Is A Section Of

Drum On Your Drums, Batter On Your Banjos, Sob On The Long Cool Winding Saxophones. Go To It, O Jazzmen.

The Squeaky Wheel Gets The Grease But The Quacking Duck Gets Shot.

Under The Harvest Moon, When The Soft Silver Drips Shimmering Over The Garden Nights, Death, The Gray Mocker, Comes And Whispers To You As A Beautiful Friend Who Remembers.

We Don't Have To Think Up A Title Till We Get The Doggone Book Written.

I'll Die Propped Up In Bed Trying To Do A Poem About America.