What is a modern poet's fate? To write his thoughts upon a slate; The critic spits on what is done, Gives it a wipeand all isgone.
Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.Carl Sandburg
He who has not been at a tavern knows not what a paradise it is. O holy tavern! O miraculous tavern! holy, because no carking cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain; and miraculous, because of the spits, which themselves turn round and round!
Oh, meet is the reverence unto Bacchus paid! We will praise him still in the songs of our fatherland, We will pour the sacred wine, the chargers lade, And the victim kid shall unresisting stand, Led by his horns to the altar, where we turn The hazel spits while the dripping entrails burn.