Middle Age At Forty-five, What

Life Begins To Happen. My Hoppped Up Husband Drops His Home Disputes, And Hits The Streets To Cruise For Prostitutes

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

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

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

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.