I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.
The best poem is that whose worked-upon unmagical passages come closest, in texture and intensity, to those moments of magical accident.
Come on up, boys -I'm dead.
You just wait. I'll sin 'til I blow up!
Oh, I'm a martyr to music.
And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.