My Soul's A Little Grief,

These Men Are Worth Your Tears. You Are Not Worth Their Merriment.

I Was A Boy When I First Realized That The Fullest Life Liveable Was A Poet's

And Death Fell With Me, Like A Deepening Moan. And He, Picking A Manner Of Worm, Which Half Had Hid Its Bruises In The Earth, But Crawled No Further, Showed Me Its Feet, The Feet Of Many Men, And The Fresh-severed Head Of It, My Head.

Be Bullied, Be Outraged, By Killed, But Do Not Kill.

The English Say, Yours Truly, And Mean It. The Italians Say, I Kiss Your Feet, And Mean, I Kick Your Head.