The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy;
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
I have to live with myself and so
I want to be fit for myself to know.
A sincere man am I
From the land where palm trees grow,
when your hero falls from grace
all fairy tales r uncovered
I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
Friends
The old word is dead.
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Two people walk through a bare, cold grove;
The moon races along with them, they look into it.
It's two in the mornin' on Saturday night
At Rosalie's Good Eats Café.
Old Meg she was a gipsy;
And liv'd upon the moors:
A creative heart, obsessed with satisfying
this dormant and uncaring society
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
before u came the triangle never broke.
we were bonded and melded as one,
Miss Thompson at Home
In her lone cottage on the downs,
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Never trust a white man,
Never kill a Jew,
At ten a.m. the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
Waking in the night;
the lamp is low,
Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song,
Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong.
Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
Tiene el leopardo un abrigo En su monte seco y pardo:
De gorja son y rapidez los tiempos: Corre cual luz la voz; en alta aguja
It's September, and the orchards are afire with red and gold, And the nights with dew are heavy, and the morning's sharp with cold;
They have spent their
content of simpering,
I'd like to be a boy again, a care-free prince of
joy again,
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