And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

If Youth Is A Defect, It Is One We Outgrow Too Soon.

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye