You want to slaughter all the women in your office you don't fancy?
I think we have the makings of a dark melancholy poem here.
There's a variety of clunge, some pretty, some not, At the East Hull Fan's place of work, The ones who are ugly, he thinks should be shot, And he'd do so himself, with a smirk.
If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical; but it must be a struggle.
I was of course meaning slaughtered in the employed/unemployed sense. Yeah, that's it. Poems? The last few I read didn't even rhyme, that's just sloppy.
Poetry doesn't need to rhyme, you massive Philistine, it's all about the meter.
If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical; but it must be a struggle.
If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical; but it must be a struggle.
Once upon a time near Goole, Sat aloft a tall barstool, Was a girl, such a tool, Drinking 'cos she thought it cool, Ending nights in a sicky pool, Her daddy threatened boarding school, She settled for the new house rule, "No more drinking outside of yule", That was the end of her messy drool, Honest, it's not an April fool.
Once upon a time near Goole, Sat aloft a tall barstool, Was a girl, such a tool, Drinking 'cos she thought it cool, Ending nights in a sicky pool, Her daddy threatened boarding school, She settled for the new house rule, "No more drinking outside of yule", That was the end of her messy drool, Honest, it's not an April fool.
Teetotal Edith, 2012.
Pretty good is that
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