Your Trouble Is, You Keep Trying To

The Flock Gets Sight Of A Spot Of Blood On Some Chicken And They All Go To Peckin' At It, See, Till They Rip The Chicken To Shreds, Blood And Bones And Feathers. But Usually A Couple Of The Flock Gets Spotted In The Fracas, Then It's Their Turn. And A Few More Gets Spots And Gets Pecked To Death, And More And More. Oh, A Peckin' Party Can Wipe Out The Whole Flock In A Matter Of A Few Hours, Buddy, I Seen It. A Mighty Awesome Sight. The Only Way To Prevent It—with Chickens—is To Clip Blinders On Them. So's They Can't See.

You Don't Plow Under The Corn Because The Seed Was Planted With A Neighbor's Shovel.

There's Shames A Man Can Never Reason Away, Though He Looks Back And Piles Up Reasons Over Them Forty Dozen Deep. And Maybe Those Are The Shames A Man Never Should Reason Away.

All I Know Is This: Nobody's Very Big In The First Place, And It Looks To Me Like Everybody Spends Their Whole Life Tearing Everybody Else Down.

Me And Norman Mailer Have Talked About How Hard It Is In America To Get Better. Especially At Writing.