In parts one and two of our unexpected sally into the mystery of the unknown poet Archibald Crouton, we had questions and searched for answers. Often those searches led us kicking empty cans down the back allies he seemed to love so much. But every time we could return to the poems themselves, seemingly the only true artifacts left behind from the man himself.
And what did he leave behind? Dozens of pieces of scrap-paper-poetry of simple honesty. There is an innocence in the matter-of-factness he wrote in. Nothing is hidden behind vague metaphors or lyrical sentiments. It is simply meant to be understood and felt, an honest reaction to an honest experience. It is here, and perhaps only here, that we can learn more of the man. He has left all the answers we need right on the page, even in the crossed-out lines we hold up to the light, trying in vain to reveal just a little more.
So with nothing more than his own words, we present part three of Archibald Crouton’s filth, as this is how we know him.