Intuitions

Why do we hold them

In such high regard

When they are what got us

The way that we are?

The Tide

complains

ish ish ish




The Kindly Cannon

and everyone he met

he blessed with gladness

eight pounds round

was his heart of iron

and matchsticks

were his friends




Courtesy

When the arrow sticks
Don't make a fuss
Reach behind you
And feel for the shaft
If it is plausible
break it off
Of course it won't be,
So just don't
Make a scene