Poetry Is Not The Thing Said, But

Hope Lies To Mortals And Most Believe Her, But Man's Deceiver Was Never Mine.

Strapped, Noosed, Nighing His Hour, He Stood And Counted Them And Cursed His Luck; And Then The Clock Collected In The Tower Its Strength, And Struck.

I Could No More Define Poetry Than A Terrier Can Define A Rat.

Oh Who Is That Young Sinner With The Handcuffs On His Wrist? And What Has He Been After That They Groan And Shake Their Fists? And Wherefore Is He Wearing Such A Conscience-stricken Air? Oh They're Taking Him To Prison For The Colour Of His Hair.

Ten Thousand Times I've Done My Best And All's To Do Again.