A poet! a poet must do all the heavy lifting in this world, since days be-fore yore, having the task of thrilling hearts of all the girls, no easy chore! (stuck there on the shore, Archimedes..Archimedes, among the bikini’s); ’cause eventually, and probably under a harvest moon, you’ll run into an amazon giantess’s heart of stone, a boulder, that! which refuses to swoon no matter what yarn you may spin her with golden threads and silver trim, toiling, over a milliner’s wheel just so she can have, –her new, adorable hat! (that filthy Fifth Avenue, rr-rat) and at this BEWARE, –you can easily get yourself a poetry hernia trying – affectionately – to lift that cold, cold thing they call a heart, a job that..turns out to be nigh impossible!! (and thankless, too! painting your self in a corner – poetically – with fashionable leftover’s); and so then what’s to do? You must wander, wander, Sire! wan-der, sir poet-knight..all your last deplorable days spent on this desert island they call a planet, wander! wearing a poet-truss..is it any wonder? you don’ wan’ it, you know you don’t! (trus’ me on that). So my advice with that to you, my poet-friend, is this: Write your poor words, if WRITE! you must, scribble down them doggerel’s and stuff, going, “BOW-WOW-WOW!” and stuff ’em in a sack! carry the undiscovered evidence of that aching, sorrowful heart with you to a watery grave in words solitary and brave..unyielding, o! my soul, treading earth’s dry paths with unbent back along the way like a whale and his song, coursing deep in ocean’s streams, there! and there they’ll maybe find your poem someday, perhaps, –under an octopus’s rock; but you won’t be there..happy in heaven, walking erect.