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

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.

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

Most Poetry Is Very Formal, But When A Modern Poet Is Formal He Gets More Attention For It Than Old Poets Did.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.