Vladimir Mayakovsky

Formerly I believed books were made like this: a poet came, lightly opened his lips, and the inspired fool burst into song _ if you please! But it seems, before they can launch a song, poets must tramp for days with callused feet, and the sluggish fish of the imagination flounders softly in the slush of the heart. And while, with twittering rhymes, they boil a broth of loves and nightingales, the tongueless street merely writhes for lack of something to shout or say

On I__l pass,dragging my huge love behind me.On whatfeverish night, deliria-ridden,by what Goliaths was I begot _ I, so bigand by no one needed?

Listen! If stars are litIt means there is someone who needs it,It means someone wants them to be,That someone deems those specks of spitMagnificent!

Have you seena dog lick the hand that thrashed it?!