The Love Boat Has Crashed Against The

Formerly I Believed Books Were Made Like This: A Poet Came, Lightly Opened His Lips, And The Inspired Fool Burst Into Song – If You Please! But It Seems, Before They Can Launch A Song, Poets Must Tramp For Days With Callused Feet, And The Sluggish Fish Of The Imagination Flounders Softly In The Slush Of The Heart. And While, With Twittering Rhymes, They Boil A Broth Of Loves And Nightingales, The Tongueless Street Merely Writhes For Lack Of Something To Shout Or Say

I Understand The Power And The Alarm Of Words - Not Those That They Applaud From Theatre-boxes, But Those Which Make Coffins Break From Bearers And On Their Four Oak Legs Walk Right Away.

Comrade Life, Let Us March Faster, March Faster Through What's Left Of The Five-year Plan.

Past One O’clock. You Must Have Gone To Bed. The Milky Way Streams Silver Through The Night. I’m In No Hurry; With Lightning Telegrams I Have No Cause To Wake Or Trouble You. And, As They Say, The Incident Is Closed. Love’s Boat Has Smashed Against The Daily Grind. Now You And I Are Quits. Why Bother Then To Balance Mutual Sorrows, Pains, And Hurts. Behold What Quiet Settles On The World. Night Wraps The Sky In Tribute From The Stars. In Hours Like These, One Rises To Address The Ages, History, And All Creation.

If An American Is Motoring On His Own, He (the Paragon Of Morality And Chastity) Will Slow Down And Stop Beside Every Solitary Pretty Female Pedestrian, Bare His Teeth In A Big Smile, And Tempt Her Into His Car With A Wild Roll Of The Eyes. A Lady Who Fails To Appreciate His Passion Will Qualify As An Idiot Who Doesn't Realise How Lucky She Is To Have The Opportunity Of Getting To Know The Owner Of This 100-horse-power Motor Car.