Do you have a respectable suit you could trust me with?

Don’t be too harsh to these poems until they’re typed.

I am sorry Yeats is dead.

A dog among the fairies.

I cycled home in the dark without a lamp of any kind.

Fourteen pints is par.

I went on all over the States, ranting poems to enthusiastic audiences that, the week before, had been equally enthusiastic about lectures on Railway Development or the Modern Turkish Essay.

Our discreditable secret is that we don’t know anything at all.

Then hang a ram rose over the rags.

I am not a country man. I stand for the evening pub.

WOWELS.

Or a lotion of invisibility.

Somebody’s boring me. I think it’s me.