I'm fighting against the bad poet who is prone to using too many words.

Dying - you can't do that to a cat.

All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.

After every war someone has to tidy up.

It's just not easy to explain to someone else what you don't understand yourself.

Generally speaking, life is so rich and full of variety; you have to remember all the time that there is a comical side to everything.

I'm working on the world, revised, improved edition, featuring fun for fools blues for brooders, combs for bald pates, tricks for old dogs.