The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy;
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
A sincere man am I
From the land where palm trees grow,
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Friends
The old word is dead.
Old Meg she was a gipsy;
And liv'd upon the moors:
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
Two people walk through a bare, cold grove; The moon races along with them, they look into it.
A creative heart, obsessed with satisfying
this dormant and uncaring society
At ten a.m. the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
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,
Waking in the night;
the lamp is low,
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
Never trust a white man,
Never kill a Jew,
I'd like to be a boy again, a care-free prince of
joy again,
I do not think all failure's undeserved,
And all success is merely someone's luck;
De gorja son y rapidez los tiempos: Corre cual luz la voz; en alta aguja
Four bells were struck, the watch was called on deck, All work aboard was over for the hour,
How do you tackle your work each day? Are you scared of the job you find?
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;
In the dungeon crypts idly did I stray,
Reckless of the lives wasting there away;
It would be nice
In any case,
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Come, come away! the spring,
By every bird that can but sing,
Tiene el leopardo un abrigo En su monte seco y pardo:
Yo sé de Egipto y Nigricia, Y de Persia y Xenophonte;
Llegada la hora del trabajo
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