One of the very worst things I've ever read in my whole entire life is this poem by D.H. Lawrence,

called Bat.

At evening sitting on this terrace,

even Florence, when the sun from the west,

beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara departs,

and the world is taken by surprise.

D.H. Lawrence actually wrote some really great poems about animals, about goats and elephants and even snakes.

But something about bats just breaks his brain.

Bats.

And an uneasy creeping in one scalp as the bats swoop overhead.

This poem is 100% trash talking,

these creatures that disgust him.

Bats!

Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag to sleep.

And the poem ends with the dumbest ending

I've ever encountered in the work of a major writer.

In China, the bat is symbol for happiness, not for me, exclamation point.

From the New York Times, this is Animal.

I'm Sam Anderson.

Episode six.

Bats.

I hate those things.

...