Harris leaned over the little sculpture and scrutinized it carefully, looking at it from every angle. It was a rather crude representation of a bald fat man, scowling as he wielded an oddly balanced sword.
“Eastern in what sense?” he said.
“Well, you know, martial arts, zen, that kind of stuff.”
Ah,” he said, straightening up. “Eastern in the sense of anything but.”
A thing ain’t haiku
Of the right numbers
Very true – and just because someone knows all the meter and stuff – does not make them a poet either, I reckon.