Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O

September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With Unpicked Apples, And At Dawn The Small-mouth Bass Breaks Water, Gorged With Spawn.

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

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.