And it was in Pontiac that I dug that Jim Crow man in person, a motherferyer that would cut your throat for looking.

The other poets were either hornrimmed intellectual hepcats with wild black hair like Alvah Goldbook, or delicate pale handsome poets like Ike O'Shay (in a suit), or out-of-this-world genteel-looking Renaissance Italians like Francis DaPavia (who looks like a young priest), or bow-tied wild-haired old anarchist fuds like Rheinhold Cacoethes, or big fat bespectacled quiet booboos like Warren Coughlin.

Well, exclaimed Lady Marchmont, breathing the perfume with which a honeysuckle, wound around an old ash, filled the air, I do confess that I like common flowers better than any. The hothouse plant has no associations.

Since deer usually give you no time to get into a nice, steady position like sitting, and since there's a shortage of benchrests in the woods, it pays to be able to shoot upright.