The motor-car went Poop-poop-poop, As it raced along the road. Who was it steered it into a pond? Ingenious Mr. Toad!

The Pulsating pearl moon harbours the last remains of romance, scintillating valorous sky strip the craving vivacity of her. Immersed in the shadowy depths, I glimpse at her reflective soul.

I wrote about people who liked fake fireplaces in their parlor, who thought a brass horse with a clock embedded in its flank was wonderful.

But it isn't hunger that drives millions of armed American Males to forests and hills every autumn, as the high incidence of heart failure among the hunters will prove. Somehow the hunting process has to do with masculinity, but I don't quite know how.

Written By John Steinbeck

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