Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.

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

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

Life Begins To Happen. My Hoppped Up Husband Drops His Home Disputes, And Hits The Streets To Cruise For Prostitutes

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