I'd rather be a great bad poet than a good bad poet.
Tonight's December thirty-first, something is about to burst. The clock is crouching, dark and small, like a time bomb in the hall. Hark, it's midnight, children dear. Duck! Here comes another year!
I was born a jackdaw; why should I try to be an owl?
To Tom Carlson or his dog-depending on whose taste it best suits.
My garden will never make me famous, I'm a horticultural ignoramus.
I hope my tongue in prune juice smothers, If I belittle dogs and mothers.