The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful.

Nobody had ever told me that anything could be like this.

Goodness . . . You got to make it out of badness . . . Because there isn't anything else to make it out of.

The urge to write poetry is like having an itch. When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it.

For the truth is a terrible thing.

Just tell 'em you're gonna soak the fat boys and forget the rest of the tax stuff...Willie, make 'em cry, make 'em laugh, make 'em mad, even mad at you. Stir them up and they'll love it and come back for more, but, for heaven's sakes, don't try to improve their minds.

Dying--shucks! If you kin handle the living, what's to be afraid of the dying?