Secure—unnoted—Conrad's prow pass'd by, / And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie; / Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, / That rears on high its rude fantastic shape.
With coveted writers commanding $5 for every typed word into magazines that were stuffed to the brim with advertising, there was a fizziness, some would say recklessness, in the air.
Sucking whiskey from a sagging breast/ Sipping the bitter cigar/ foreskinning up and down...
Despite retiring, he still tries to keep a finger on the pulse of the industry.
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