Wits And Swords Are As Straws Against

Youngsters Of This Generation Seem Not Quite So Hazardous Except In The Way Of Mechanical Speed, Bad Liquor And Venereal Diseases.

Don't You Think That As A People, Americans Have Less Poetry, Real Poetry, In Their Souls Than Any Other Nations?

All Fled—all Done, So Lift Me On The Pyre— The Feast Is Over, And The Lamps Expire.

Musings The Little Poets Sing Of Little Things: Hope, Cheer, And Faith, Small Queens And Puppet Kings; Lovers Who Kissed And Then Were Made As One, And Modest Flowers Waving In The Sun. The Mighty Poets Write In Blood And Tears And Agony That, Flame-like, Bites And Sears. They Reach Their Mad Blind Hands Into The Night, To Plumb Abysses Dead To Human Sight; To Drag From Gulfs Where Lunacy Lies Curled, Mad, Monstrous Nightmare Shapes To Blast The World. [click On The Thumbnail By Jack "king" Kirby]

I Have Not Been A Success, And Probably Never Will Be.