We don't read and write poetry because it's cute, we read and write poetry because we are members of the human race and the human race is filled with passion . . . These are what we stay alive for. The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. They hung my black young lover To a crossroads tree. I asked the white Lord Jesus What was the use of prayer.
Love is a naked shadow On a gnarled and naked tree.
So, when cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the wretched features of the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast. And the former was a pudd'n, and the latter was a fake. And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third. And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty granduer there.