Somebody asked a cynical male poet: “What are your poems about?” The poet showed his dimples and batted his eyes and said: “Me.”
Another time somebody asked the poet if he thought that, in some sense, he was saving the world. The poet said: “No, no. I think of myself as a kind of folk singer. People are as unlikely to improve their souls by listening to me as they would from listening to robins warbling in a park.”
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