What If A Much Of A Which

-before Leaving My Room I Turn, And (stooping Through The Morning) Kiss This Pillow, Dear Where Our Heads Lived And Were.

If 180 Million People Want To Be Undead, That’s Their Funeral, But I Happen To Like Being Alive.

I Remember We All Cried Like The Missouri When My Uncle Sol's Coffin Lurched Because Somebody Pressed A Button (and Down Went My Uncle Sol And Started A Worm Farm)

A Wind Has Blown The Rain Away And Blown The Sky Away And All The Leaves Away, And The Trees Stand. I Think, I Too, Have Known Autumn Too Long.

By The Way, A Gendarme Assured Me This Is Not A Prison.