Old Crap Mulch Pile

How could "the trains come into strange cities?"
They knew all of 'em by heart, Jack.

Yes, well I love the blue skies, so
when y'all waited and "the blue skies writhed
awhile," well, yeah, I was alright then.

But, Boy, Jack, you really must have
known DOWN. Thus "becoming black with death"
all of a sudden. Alright, maybe not so suddenly.
"Plague," "a boil," "enclosing" ya from within,
it's kinda bleak right from the get-go.

Very unlike O'Hara, who understood
Nick P's strong true dictum,
one can hardly Contradicta,

Happiness is not the lack of sadness; it is what sadness learns to wear in order to shine.

Alright, Mate, I have been cruelly hard on you
forever. I think,
and I really need to lighten up
and start being fair.
You had your poetry and
it was likely all you had, eons
too early to partake of reliable forms
of self-preservation.

Virtually everybody with soul
recognizes in your verse the purest,
most immemorial instincts.

What's my excuse? I have and deserve none.
I owe you an ocean of apologies.