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Oh Vulture, you're never off, never. At first I thought it was parody, then a 'turn' now I realise it's art irritating life. Kosh

I see your poetry has come on leaps and bounds. Sweet Jesus Keats has nothing on you Vulture, nothing. SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend...