There's No Money In Poetry, But Then

We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.

I Do Not Love The Sabbath, The Soapsuds And The Starch, The Troops Of Solemn People Who To Salvation March. I Take My Book, I Take My Stick On The Sabbath Day, In Woody Nooks And Valleys I Hide Myself Away. To Ponder There In Quiet God's Universal Plan, Resolved That Church And Sabbath Were Never Made For Man.

Kill If You Must, But Never Hate: Man Is But Grass And Hate Is Blight, The Sun Will Scorch You Soon Or Late, Die Wholesome Then, Since You Must Fight

Any Honest Housewife Would Sort Them Out,/ Having A Nose For Fish, An Eye For Apples.

The Award Of A Pure Gold Medal For Poetry Would Flatter The Recipient Unduly: No Poem Ever Attains Such Carat Purity.