In that City coffee house, in a back booth, I overheard this one chap claim that the proper way to read poetry was from the last line forward to the first, “Try it,” he said, (“No comment,” say I.)
There’s this one guy on the Slovakian side of the Carpathians, who sez he’s got everybody’s number. (He has a three-fourth’s brother on the Chech side who similarly claims to have everybody down pat.)
All institutions, organizations, clubs, and mobs, tend to annoy Revolutionist intelligence.
Don’t look for
enlightenment in a suitcase…
oh, go ahead.
After a certain leg of the journey, and from a certain passing view, a Revolutionist could say, “You know, I’m now the kinda person I used to hate, and laugh at,” and like all real good stuff, this is so, no matter who you are, were, or may become.