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Poem	In a state of chortle sin-”once he reflected, swilling tomato juice-”live I, and did more than my thirstier years. To Hell then will it maul me? for good talk, and gripe of retail loss? I dare say not. I don't thÃnk there's that place save sullen here, wherefrom she flies tonight retrieving her whole body, which I need. I recall a 'coon treed, flashlights, & barks, and I was in that tree, and something can (has) been said for sobriety but very little. The guns. Ah, darling, it was late for me, midnight, at seven. How in famished youth could I forsee Henry's sweet seed unspent across so flying barren ground, where would my loves dislimn whose dogs abound? I fell out of the tree.
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