Don't Bow Down To Critics Who Have

My Country Tears Of Thee.

[in The True Mad North] Of Introspection, Where 'falcons Of The Inner Eye' Dive And Die, Glimpsing In Their Dying Fall, All Life's Memory Of Existence.

See It Was Like This When We Waltz Into This Place. A Couple Of Papish Cats Is Doing An Aztec Two-step And I Says Dad Let's Cut But Then This Dame Comes Up Behind Me See And Says You And Me Could Really Exist Wow I Says Only The Next Day She Has Bad Teeth And Really Hates Poetry.

The Art Has To Make It On Its Own, Without Explanations, And It’s The Same For Poetry. If The Poem Or The Painting Has To Be Explained, Then It’s A Failure In Communication.

I Think If There's A Great Depression There Might Be Some Hope.