Ain't It Just Like The Night To

I Think A Poet Is Anybody Who Wouldn't Call Himself A Poet.

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I Was Burned Out From Exhaustion, Buried In The Hail, Poisoned In The Bushes, Blown Out On The Trail; Hunted Like A Crocodile, Ravaged In The Corn, "come In," She Said, "i'll Give Ya Shelter From The Storm."

Since My Feet Are Now Fast And Point Away From The Past, I'll Bid Farewell And Be Down The Line.

An Artist Has Got To Be Constantly In A State Of Becoming.