Poems to Madame Gonzaga

topic posted Tue, July 20, 2004 - 7:05 PM by  nobody
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It seems that Madame Gonzaga is a big fan of poetry. This thread is devoted to writing poetry for our lovely moderator.

Please proceed. :o)
posted by:
nobody
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  • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Tue, July 20, 2004 - 8:02 PM
    Iambic Pentameter:

    With little paws and eyes like limpid pools,
    She sniffs a butt and spills a little drool
    How does she type without a thumb to use?
    A fetching little scamp and such a muse.

    Great Gorganzola brings us such delight.
    Whilst kittens run and hide with awe and fright.
    She rules the beasts by day and through the night.
    Sweet Gorganzola we know you're always right.


  • Unsu...
     

    Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Wed, July 21, 2004 - 9:43 AM
    Madame Gonzaga is a leetle terrier
    Who travels through the astral barrier
    When she's feeling nice,
    She'll give advice
    And we're all a leetle merrier.
    • Unsu...
       

      Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

      Wed, July 21, 2004 - 10:00 AM
      Haiku:
      Madame Gonzaga
      a vision in happy fur
      Madame Gonzaga

      Limerick:
      There one was a Madame Gonzaga
      Who was a clever interviewah
      She took an Airplane
      And met a Great Dane
      And found her new puppies a Fathah.

      A rip off from Vonnegut:
      Miss Madame Gonzaga sifting cinders
      lifted up her leg and farted like a man
      the breeze from her bloomers broke 15 winders
      and the cheeks of her ass went
      *clap* *clap* *clap*
  • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Wed, July 21, 2004 - 3:17 PM
    Madame Gonzaga
    the mystic cute dogah
    Her licks are so sweet
    When she is walking down the street
    All the people's give her offerings of ham
    They bow to her 8 nipples
    And give her tummy tickles
    For she is the bestest terrier
    and as far as humpee humpee she says
    The more the merrier

    Did I say Ham?

    Queenie of Pie
  • Unsu...
     

    Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Mon, July 26, 2004 - 6:15 PM
    World Trade Towers ~
    //////////////////// roomfu deod afoul
    • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

      Fri, August 20, 2004 - 11:04 AM
      arroooooooooooo! More More!
      • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

        Thu, November 4, 2004 - 2:10 PM
        tippy tap tippy tap...
        • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

          Thu, November 4, 2004 - 9:31 PM
          the sweet
          my feelings
          divine
          beautiful
          dog
          love
          intimate
          friendship
          • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

            Fri, November 5, 2004 - 9:09 AM
            Madame Gonzaga
            Mad DAM Or Maddam?
            In text we have no accents
            Unless you are Gonzaga
            Queen of the MadDamned

            Fluffy pooch with prescience
            Insightful, piercing, probing
            occasionally disgusting
            Gets her tribe back
            by going "Tippy tap
            tippy tap"

            Terrier Terror of the literate world
            Trollish knaves beware
            You'll grow pale, thin,
            and transparent
            in her light
            Gonzaga
            Queen of the MadDamned
            • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

              Fri, November 5, 2004 - 10:53 AM
              Yoo makey mee bloosh. I luff zee pomes!
              • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

                Fri, November 5, 2004 - 11:30 AM
                Madame G, yoo make us all smile,
                Da pwetty wady wif a heart of gold,
                Down da Wane yoo invite us all,
                A fwiendwy pwace away fwom da cold

                Yoo make me waff in puppy dewight,
                I'll chase my tail and want to pway,
                Yoo never cease to make things bwight,
                And bwing good cheer to evewy day

                *woof!*woof!*
              • Unsu...
                 

                Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

                Fri, November 5, 2004 - 12:12 PM
                d^^~AnaIII (11:40 11/5/04 722 bytes)
                madame gonzaga~
                ////////////////////// medals gowned

                agazanog emadam~
                \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ gogrrgo emorbon

                "go grr go mor bone"


                d^^~AnaIII (11:57 11/5/04 484bytes)
                earn ewes e---n >>>>>>>>>[e---n 3x]
                n---e sewe nrae~
                \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ miwf isent weal
                \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ iniwf seine nrv
                \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ iniwf send real
                \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ nrvu semi weal
  • Unsu...
     

    Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Fri, November 5, 2004 - 12:30 PM
    d^^ ~ AnaIII (12:20 11/5/04 448 bytes)

    the general good
    laew cilbup eht~
    \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ lorn vilify la

    sepirts htiw kram ot~
    \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ sepal ultra slum at
    \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ squib Mbu slums at
  • Unsu...
     

    Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Fri, November 5, 2004 - 12:46 PM
    n juiss one moor thiws fiurry afternewn.....

    a small firecracker

    d^^ ~ AnaIII (11/5/04 12:42 342 bytes)

    biuqs~
    \\\\\\\ deign diifo chiton Iniqu
    \\\\\\\ slings ibiloin dwa diifo
    • My pome. Quiet please. ahem.

      Sun, January 9, 2005 - 6:49 PM
      Zare's a pteradactyl een myne house.
      SCREE! SCREE! SCREE!
      Eatsa knot azz quiet azz zee mouse.
      SCREE! SCREE! SCREE!
      Zare veal bee pteradactyl soup fur suppper
      wen I catch zat mothrafuxxxer.
      • Unsu...
         

        Re: My pome. Quiet please. ahem.

        Sun, January 9, 2005 - 7:01 PM
        birdies peck at my doll hair
        birdies peck at my doll eyes
        but dirty birdies should beware
        i live to make the birdies die
        • Re: My pome. Quiet please. ahem.

          Sun, January 9, 2005 - 9:01 PM
          There once was a woman, Romanian
          She had a doggy, Pomerainian
          She couldn't rely on looks
          So she sold books
          Not that I'm complanian
          • Duel?

            Mon, January 10, 2005 - 12:23 AM
            wot zee nice bit ov pulp...har de har
            Eez zee wry tinger zee son ov Jar Jar?
            I donut rightly nose
            Zee resemblings eez close...
            though hee eez more annoying by far
            • Unsu...
               

              Re: Duel?

              Mon, January 10, 2005 - 2:01 AM
              Keep it cool
              Don't duel with a fool
              • Re: Duel?

                Mon, January 10, 2005 - 2:04 AM
                Hi Rod! why are you up?
                • Re: Duel?

                  Mon, January 10, 2005 - 9:10 PM
                  Wy, beecause hee eez Rod Springer, ov course!
                  • This is the maximum depth. Additional responses will not be threaded.
                    Unsu...
                     

                    matoepantamiter

                    Mon, January 10, 2005 - 9:24 PM
                    far from my cristmas storm
                    an angel w/safe haven,
                    a little doggies home so warm
                    • Re: matoepantamiter

                      Mon, January 10, 2005 - 10:05 PM
                      ahhhhhhhh. Hee!
                      • Unsu...
                         

                        Re: matoepantamiter

                        Mon, January 10, 2005 - 10:39 PM
                        u like?
                        • Re: matoepantamiter

                          Mon, January 10, 2005 - 10:49 PM
                          Tip of the hat to Pablo Neruda

                          I need Madame because she teaches me
                          I don't know if I learn music or awareneess
                          A single wag of the tail or its vast existence
                          Its harsh voice or its shining one
                          A suggestion of canine wisdom
                          The fact is that until I fall I asleep
                          In some magnetic way I move
                          In Gonzaga University
                • Unsu...
                   

                  Re: Duel?

                  Tue, January 11, 2005 - 1:45 AM
                  >> Hi Rod! why are you up?

                  Because, I'm always up.
                  • This is the maximum depth. Additional responses will not be threaded.

                    high-koo

                    Tue, January 11, 2005 - 11:21 AM
                    all-knowing madame
                    she shines shinier than beer
                    i wish i had ham
                    • Bitch Koan

                      Tue, January 11, 2005 - 11:31 AM
                      Is she a womanly dog or doggedly woman?
                      Is she canine?
                      Is she human?
                      Does she lick herself in the mittel of der kitchen?
                      Or douche?
  • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Tue, January 11, 2005 - 4:56 PM
    ODE TO MADAME GONZAGA

    She's a little white dog full of psychic vibration...
    With a warning to all from station to station!

    They snuffed out her bright little bulb. Mad scientists brought her back!
    As they flipped the switch she cried, "Hee! Snarfle!" and gave a walloping "KAK!"

    A friend to all- she keeps a wrap on her hexings...
    But don't let it fool ya! She's always looking for sexxxings...

    With this friend from Romania- you'll never feel blue...
    'Cuz when she get's all excited, she screams "Arooooooooooooo!"
  • Unsu...
     

    Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Tue, February 22, 2005 - 11:00 AM
    For me to do so, I must perform such prose with a haiku in Madame's true tongue:

    "ARF! Bark bark arf, bark bark bark!!!

    Sniff? Whimper? ARF!

    BARK! Arf arf bark, arf arf arf!!!"

    PS AAARRRRRRROOOOOOOO!!!!!
    • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

      Thu, July 28, 2005 - 10:09 AM
      A Song of Despair
      translated by w.s.merwin
      The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
      The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

      Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
      It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

      Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
      Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

      In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
      From you the wings of the song birds rose.

      You swallowed everything, like distance.
      Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

      It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
      The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

      Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
      turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

      In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
      Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

      You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
      sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

      I made the wall of shadow draw back,
      beyond desire and act, I walked on.

      Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
      I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

      Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
      and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

      There was the black solitude of the islands,
      and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

      There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
      There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

      Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
      in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

      How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
      How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

      Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
      still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

      Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
      oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

      Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
      in which we merged and despaired.

      And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
      And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

      This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
      and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

      Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
      what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not
      drowned!

      From billow to billow you still called and sang.
      Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

      You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
      Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

      Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
      lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

      It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
      which the night fastens to all the timetables.

      The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
      Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

      Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
      Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

      Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

      It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
      • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

        Thu, July 28, 2005 - 10:28 AM
        I wish to sup on her eyes
        fry her golden behind in whale fargings
        sugar the spine and shelac it into permanence
        mend the nervous shaking
        as she waits for her treat
        • This post was deleted by Madame Gonzaga
          • This post was deleted by Madame Gonzaga
            • To ze leetl dog from Ladye.

              Mon, January 21, 2008 - 3:38 PM
              Dirge Without Music

              I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
              So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
              Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
              With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

              Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
              Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
              A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
              A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.

              The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
              They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
              Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
              More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

              Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
              Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
              Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
              I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

              -- Edna St. Vincent Millay
  • Unsu...
     

    Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Mon, January 21, 2008 - 4:14 PM
    I would compose a poem for you, Madame, and post it here, but then TRUE will forward it to Perverted Justice, just like she did with the last poem I wrote on Tribe.

    As long as you don't mind getting dragged into an investigation, I will compose a poem for you.
    • This post was deleted by Madame Gonzaga
    • This post was deleted by Madame Gonzaga
  • Song Unsung

    Fri, January 2, 2009 - 2:31 PM
    The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.

    I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument.

    The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set;

    only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.

    The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.

    I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice;

    only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.

    The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor;

    but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house.

    I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.
    • 2009

      Fri, January 2, 2009 - 5:08 PM
      Ze aroooousingly swellness ov heart. Mangy donkeys fur ze recitationings. I blooosh.

      Arrrrrrooooooooooo00000OOOO0000oooooo!

      Special messagings to Lokifreign: LIFT UP YOUR VOICINGS!
      Ze Year ov ze Impish Smile shall bring aryooo ze visitor aryoooo knead, though purrhaps not ze he whom you so mightily seek. Flash twice daily.
      • Unsu...
         

        Re: 2009

        Fri, January 2, 2009 - 5:21 PM
        This is a little melancholy but it's nice, kind of how I feel.

        The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
        The waves are dancing fast and bright,
        Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
        The purple noon's transparent might,
        The breath of the moist air is light,
        Around its unexpanded buds;
        Like many a voice of one delight,
        The winds', the birds', the ocean floods',
        The City's voice itself, is soft like Solitude's.

        I see the Deep's untrampled floor
        With green and purple seaweeds strown;
        I see the waves upon the shore,
        Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
        I sit upon the sands alone, -
        The lightning of the noontide ocean
        Is flashing round me, and a tone
        Arises from its measured motion,
        How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.


        Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
        Nor peace within nor calm around,
        Nor that content surpassing wealth
        The sage in meditation found,
        And walked with inward glory crowned -
        Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
        Others I see whom these surround -
        Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; -
        To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

        Some might lament that I were cold,
        As I, when this sweet day is done,
        Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
        Insults with this untimely moan;
        They might lament -for I am one
        Whom men love not, -and yet regret,
        Unlike this day which, when the sun
        Shall on its stainless glory set,
        Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

        Yet now despair itself is mild,
        Even as the winds and waters are;
        I could lie down like a tired child,
        And weep away the life of care
        Which I have borne and yet must bear,
        Till death like sleep might steal on me,
        And I might feel in the warm air
        My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
        Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
        • 2009 Descends!

          Sat, January 3, 2009 - 4:46 PM
          The ghost of Rabindrinath Tagore shall seek his revenge.
          • Unsu...
             

            Re: 2009 Descends!

            Sat, January 3, 2009 - 7:11 PM
            this is pretty old, it's very right though.

            Lesbia always talks bad to me nor is she ever silent
            about me: Lesbia is loving me, if not, I may be destroyed.
            By what sign? Because they are the same signs: I am showing her
            disapproval constantly, I am lost if I do not love.
            • Ah yes, Miss Jones. Aryoo spackle ze Truth.

              Sat, January 3, 2009 - 7:55 PM
              One tends to quote Rabindranath Tagore as one eez feeling heez feels. Forgetting ze credit eez oft ze overslight ov ze passion ov ze recitationings, as ze chunnelings wrench hearts und bugger brains.

              To wit:

              Stray Birds


              1

              Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.

              2

              O troupe of little vagrants of the world, leave your footprints in my words.

              3

              The world puts off its mask of vastness to its lover. It becomes small as one song, as one kiss of the eternal.

              4

              It is the tears of the earth that keep her smiles in bloom.

              5

              The mighty desert is burning for the love of a blade of grass who shakes her head and laughs and flies away.

              6

              If you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars.

              7

              The sands in your way beg for your song and your movement, dancing water. Will you carry the burden of their lameness?

              8

              Her wistful face haunts my dreams like the rain at night.

              9

              Once we dreamt that we were strangers. We wake up to find that we were dear to each other.

              10

              Sorrow is hushed into peace in my heart like the evening among the silent trees.

              11

              Some unseen fingers, like idle breeze, are playing upon my heart the music of the ripples.

              12

              "What language is thine, O sea?"

              "The language of eternal question."

              "What language is thy answer, O sky?

              "The language of eternal silence."

              13

              Listen, my heart, to the whispers of the world with which it makes love to you.

              14

              The mystery of creation is like the darkness of night--it is great. Delusions of knowledge are like the fog of the morning.

              15

              Do not seat your love upon a precipice because it is high.

              16

              I sit at my window this morning where the world like a passer-by stops for a moment, nods to me and goes.

              17

              These little thoughts are the rustle of leaves; they have their whisper of joy in my mind.

              18

              What you are you do not see, what you see is your shadow.

              19

              My wishes are fools, they shout across thy songs, my Master. Let me but listen.

              20

              I cannot choose the best.
              The best chooses me.

              21

              They throw their shadows before them who carry their lantern on their back.

              22

              That I exist is a perpetual surprise which is life.

              23

              "We, the rustling leaves, have a voice that answers the storms, but who are you so silent?" "I am a mere flower."

              24

              Rest belongs to the work as the eyelids to the eyes.

              25

              Man is a born child, his power is the power of growth.

              26

              God expects answers for the flowers he sends us, not for the sun and the earth.

              27

              The light that plays, like a naked child, among the green leaves happily knows not that man can lie.

              28

              O Beauty, find thyself in love, not in the flattery of thy mirror.

              29

              My heart beats her waves at the shore of the world and writes upon it her signature in tears with the words, "I love thee."

              30

              "Moon, for what do you wait?"

              "To salute the sun for whom I must make way."

              31

              The trees come up to my window like the yearning voice of the dumb earth.

              32

              His own mornings are new surprises to God.

              33

              Life finds its wealth by the claims of the world, and its worth by the claims of love.

              34

              The dry river-bed finds no thanks for its past.

              35

              The bird wishes it were a cloud. The cloud wishes it were a bird.

              36

              The waterfall sings, "I find my song, when I find my freedom."

              37

              I cannot tell why this heart languishes in silence.
              It is for small needs it never asks, or knows or remembers.

              38

              Woman, when you move about in your household service your limbs sing like a hill stream among its pebbles.

              39

              The sun goes to cross the Western sea, leaving its last salutation to the East.

              40

              Do not blame your food because you have no appetite.

              41

              The trees, like the longings of the earth, stand a-tiptoe to peep at the heaven.

              42

              You smiled and talked to me of nothing and I felt that for this I had been waiting long.

              43

              The fish in the water is silent, the animal on the earth is noisy, the bird in the air is singing,
              But Man has in him the silence of the sea, the noise of the earth and the music of the air.

              44

              The world rushes on over the strings of the lingering heart making the music of sadness.

              45

              He has made his weapons his gods. When his weapons win he is defeated himself.

              46

              God finds himself by creating.

              47

              Shadow, with her veil drawn, follows Light in secret meekness, with her silent steps of love.

              48

              The stars are not afraid to appear like fireflies.

              49

              I thank thee that I am none of the wheels of power but I am one with the living creatures that are crushed by it.

              50

              The mind, sharp but not broad, sticks at every point but does not move.

              51

              Your idol is shattered in the dust to prove that God's dust is greater than your idol.

              52

              Man does not reveal himself in his history, he struggles up through it.

              53

              While the glass lamp rebukes the earthen for calling it cousin, the moon rises, and the glass lamp, with a bland smile, calls her, "My dear, dear sister."

              54

              Like the meeting of the seagulls and the waves we meet and come near. The seagulls fly off, the waves roll away and we depart.

              55

              My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.

              56

              Life is given to us, we earn it by giving it.

              57

              We come nearest to the great when we are great in humility.

              58

              The sparrow is sorry for the peacock at the burden of its tail.

              59

              Never be afraid of the moments--thus sings the voice of the everlasting.

              60

              The hurricane seeks the shortest road by the no-road, and suddenly ends its search in the Nowhere.

              61

              Take my wine in my own cup, friend. It loses its wreath of foam when poured into that of others.

              62

              The Perfect decks itself in beauty for the love of the Imperfect.

              63

              God says to man, "I heal you therefore I hurt, love you therefore punish."

              64

              Thank the flame for its light, but do not forget the lampholder standing in the shade with constancy of patience.

              65

              Tiny grass, your steps are small, but you possess the earth under your tread.

              66

              The infant flower opens its bud and cries, "Dear World, please do not fade."

              67

              God grows weary of great kingdoms, but never of little flowers.

              68

              Wrong cannot afford defeat but Right can.

              69

              "I give my whole water in joy," sings the waterfall, "though little of it is enough for the thirsty."

              70

              Where is the fountain that throws up these flowers in a ceaseless outbreak of ecstasy?

              71

              The woodcutter's axe begged for its handle from the tree. The tree gave it.

              72

              In my solitude of heart I feel the sigh of this widowed evening veiled with mist and rain.

              73

              Chastity is a wealth that comes from abundance of love.

              74

              The mist, like love, plays upon the heart of the hills and brings out surprises of beauty.

              75

              We read the world wrong and say that it deceives us.

              76

              The poet wind is out over the sea and the forest to seek his own voice.

              77

              Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man.

              78

              The grass seeks her crowd in the earth.
              The tree seeks his solitude of the sky.

              79

              Man barricades against himself.

              80

              Your voice, my friend, wanders in my heart, like the muffled sound of the sea among these listening pines.

              81

              What is this unseen flame of darkness whose sparks are the stars?

              82

              Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves.

              88

              He who wants to do good knocks at the gate; he who loves finds the gate open.

              84

              In death the many becomes one; in life the one becomes many. Religion will be one when God is dead.

              85

              The artist is the lover of Nature, therefore he is her slave and her master.

              86

              "How far are you from me, O Fruit?" "I am hidden in your heart, O Flower."

              87

              This longing is for the one who is felt in the dark, but not seen in the day.

              88

              "You are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf, I am the smaller one on its upper side," said the dewdrop to the lake.

              89

              The scabbard is content to be dull when it protects the keenness of the sword.

              90

              In darkness the One appears as uniform; in the light the One appears as manifold.

              91

              The great earth makes herself hospitable with the help of the grass.

              92

              The birth and death of the leaves are the rapid whirls of the eddy whose wider circles move slowly among stars.

              93

              Power said to the world, "You are mine. The world kept it prisoner on her throne. Love said to the world, "I am thine." The world gave it the freedom of her house.

              94

              The mist is like the earth's desire. It hides the sun for whom she cries.

              95

              Be still, my heart, these great trees are prayers.

              96

              The noise of the moment scoffs at the music of the Eternal.

              97

              I think of other ages that floated upon the stream of life and love and death and are forgotten, and I feel the freedom of passing away.

              98

              The sadness of my soul is her bride's veil. It waits to be lifted in the night.

              99

              Death's stamp gives value to the coin of life; making it possible to buy with life what is truly precious.

              100

              The cloud stood humbly in a corner of the sky. The morning crowned it with splendour.

              101

              The dust receives insult and in return offers her flowers.

              102

              Do not linger to gather flowers to keep them, but walk on, for flowers will keep themselves blooming all your way.

              103

              Roots are the branches down in the earth. Branches are roots in the air.

              104

              The music of the far-away summer flutters around the Autumn seeking its former nest.

              105

              Do not insult your friend by lending him merits from your own pocket.

              106

              The touch of the nameless days clings to my heart like mosses round the old tree.

              107

              The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.

              108

              God is ashamed when the prosperous boasts of His special favour.

              109

              I cast my own shadow upon my path, because I have a lamp that has not been lighted.

              110

              Man goes into the noisy crowd to drown his own clamour of silence.

              111

              That which ends in exhaustion is death, but the perfect ending is in the endless.

              112

              The sun has his simple robe of light. The clouds are decked with gorgeousness.

              113

              The hills are like shouts of children who raise their arms, trying to catch stars.

              114

              The road is lonely in its crowd for it is not loved.

              115

              The power that boasts of its mischiefs is laughed at by the yellow leaves that fall, and clouds that pass by.

              116

              The earth hums to me to-day in the sun, like a woman at her spinng, some ballad of the ancient time in a forgotten tongue.

              117

              The grass-blade is worth of the great world where it grows.

              118

              Dream is a wife who must talk.
              Sleep is a husband who silently suffers.

              119

              The night kisses the fading day whispering to his ear, "I am death, your mother. I am to give you fresh birth."

              120

              I feel, thy beauty, dark night, like that of the loved woman when she has put out the lamp.

              121

              I carry in my world that flourishes the worlds that have failed.

              122

              Dear friend, I feel the silence of your great thoughts of may a deepening eventide on this beach when I listen to these waves.

              123

              The bird thinks it is an act of kindness to give the fish a lift in the air.

              124

              "In the moon thou sendest thy love letters to me," said the night to the sun.

              "I leave my answers in tears upon the grass."

              125

              The Great is a born child; when he dies he gives his great childhood to the world.

              126

              Not hammerstrokes, but dance of the water sings the pebbles into perfection.

              127

              Bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave.
              The gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him.

              128

              To be outspoken is easy when you do not wait to speak the complete truth.

              129

              Asks the Possible to the Impossible, "Where is your dwelling place?"

              "In the dreams of the impotent," comes the answer.

              130

              If you shut your door to all errors truth will be shut out.

              131

              I hear some rustle of things behind my sadness of heart,--I cannot see them.

              132

              Leisure in its activity is work.
              The stillness of the sea stirs in waves.

              133

              The leaf becomes flower when it loves.
              The flower becomes fruit when it worships.

              134

              The roots below the earth claim no rewards for making the branches fruitful.

              135

              This rainy evening the wind is restless.
              I look at the swaying branches and ponder over the greatness of all things.

              136

              Storm of midnight, like a giant child awakened in the untimely dark, has begun to play and shout.

              137

              Thou raisest thy waves vainly to follow thy lover. O sea, thou lonely bride of the storm.

              138

              "I am ashamed of my emptiness," said the Word to the Work.
              "I know how poor I am when I see you," said the Work to the Word.

              139

              Time is the wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth.

              140

              Truth in her dress finds facts too tight.
              In fiction she moves with ease.

              141

              When I travelled to here and to there, I was tired of thee, O Road, but now when thou leadest me to everywhere I am wedded to thee in love.

              142

              Let me think that there is one among those stars that guides my life through the dark unknown.

              143

              Woman, with the grace of your fingers you touched my things and order came out like music.

              144

              One sad voice has its nest among the ruins of the years. It sings to me in the night,--"I loved you."

              145

              The flaming fire warns me off by its own glow.
              Save me from the dying embers hidden under ashes.

              146

              I have my stars in the sky,
              But oh for my little lamp unlit in my house.

              147

              The dust of the dead words clings to thee.
              Wash thy soul with silence.

              148

              Gaps are left in life through which comes the sad music of death.

              149

              The world has opened its heart of light in the morning.
              Come out, my heart, with thy love to meet it.

              150

              My thoughts shimmer with these shimmering leaves and my heart sings with the touch of this sunlight; my life is glad to be floating with all things into the blue of space, into the dark of time.

              151

              God's great power is in the gentle breeze, not in the storm.

              152

              This is a dream in which things are all loose and they oppress.
              I shall find them gathered in thee when I awake and shall be free.

              153

              "Who is there to take up my duties?" asked the setting sun.

              "I shall do what I can, my Master," said the earthen lamp.

              154

              By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower.

              155

              Silence will carry your voice like the nest that holds the sleeping birds.

              156

              The Great walks with the Small without fear.
              The Middling keeps aloof.

              157

              The night opens the flowers in secret and allows the day to get thanks.

              158

              Power takes as ingratitude the writhings of its victims.

              159

              When we rejoice in our fulness, then we can part with our fruits with joy.

              160

              The raindrops kissed the earth and whispered,--"We are thy homesick children, mother, come back to thee from the heaven."

              161

              The cobweb pretends to catch dew-drops and catches flies.

              162

              Love! when you come with the burning lamp of pain in your hand, I can see your face and know you as bliss.

              163

              "The learned say that your lights will one day be no more." said the firefly to the stars. The stars made no answer.

              164

              In the dusk of the evening the bird of some early dawn comes to the nest of my silence.

              165

              Thoughts pass in my mind like flocks of ducks in the sky.
              I hear the voice of their wings.

              166

              The canal loves to think that rivers exist solely to supply it with water.

              167

              The world has kissed my soul with its pain, asking for its return in songs.

              168

              That which oppresses me, is it my soul trying to come out in the open, or the soul of the world knocking at my heart for its entrance?

              169

              Thought feeds itself with its own words and grows.

              170

              I have dipped the vessel of my heart into this silent hour; it has filled with love.

              171

              Either you have work or you have not.
              When you have to say, "Let us do something," then begins mischief.

              172

              The sunflower blushed to own the nameless flower as her kin.
              The sun rose and smiled on it, saying, "Are you well, my darling?"

              173

              "Who drives me forward like fate?" "The Myself striding on my back."

              174

              The clouds fill the watercups of the river, hiding themselves in the distant hills.

              175

              I spill water from my water jar as I walk on my way,
              Very little remains for my home.

              176

              The water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark.
              The small truth has words that are clear; the great truth has great silence.

              177

              Your smile was the flowers of your own fields, your talk was the rustle of your own mountain pines, but your heart was the woman that we all know.

              178

              It is the little things that I leave behind for my loved ones,-- great things are for everyone.

              179

              Woman, thou hast encircled the world's heart with the depth of thy tears as the sea has the earth.

              180

              The sunshine greets me with a smile. The rain, his sad sister, talks to my heart.

              181

              My flower of the day dropped its petals forgotten. In the evening it ripens into a golden fruit of memory.

              182

              I am like the road in the night listening to the footfalls of its memories in silence.

              183

              The evening sky to me is like a window, and a lighted lamp, and a waiting behind it.

              184

              He who is too busy doing good finds no time to be good.

              185

              I am the autumn cloud, empty of rain, see my fulness in the field of ripened rice.

              186

              They hated and killed and men praised them.
              But God in shame hastens to hide its memory under the green grass.

              187

              Toes are the fingers that have forsaken their past.

              188

              Darkness travels towards light, but blindness towards death.

              189

              The pet dog suspects the universe for scheming to take its place.

              190

              Sit still my heart, do not raise your dust.
              Let the world find its way to you.

              191

              The bow whispers to the arrow before it speeds forth--"Your freedom is mine."

              192

              Woman, in your laughter you have the music of the fountain of life.

              193

              A mind all logic is like a knife all blade.
              It makes the hand bleed that uses it.

              194

              God loves man's lamp lights better than his own great stars.

              195

              This world is the world of wild storms kept tame with the music of beauty.

              196

              "My heart is like the golden casket of thy kiss," said the sunset cloud to the sun.

              197

              By touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess.

              198

              The cricket's chirp and the patter of rain come to me through the dark, like the rustle of dreams from my past youth.

              199

              "I have lost my dewdrop," cries the flower to the morning sky that has lost all its stars.

              200

              The burning log bursts in flame and cries,--"This is my flower, my death."

              201

              The wasp thinks that the honey-hive of the neighbouring bees is too small.
              His neighbours ask him to build one still smaller.

              202

              "I cannot keep your waves," says the bank to the river. "Let me keep your footprints in my heart."

              203

              The day, with the noise of this little earth, drowns the silence of all worlds.

              204

              The song feels the infinite in the air, the picture in the earth,
              the poem in the air and the earth;
              For its words have meaning that walks and music that soars.
              205

              When the sun goes down to the West, the East of his morning stands before him in silence.

              206

              Let me not put myself wrongly to my world and set it against me.

              207

              Praise shames me, for I secretly beg for it.

              208

              Let my doing nothing when I have nothing to do become untroubled in its depth of peace like the evening in the seashore when the water is silent.

              209

              Maiden, your simplicity, like the blueness of the lake, reveals your depth of truth.

              210

              The best does not come alone. It comes with the company of the all.

              211

              God's right hand is gentle, but terrible is his left hand.

              212

              My evening came among the alien trees and spoke in a language which my morning stars did not know.

              213

              Night's darkness is a bag that bursts with the gold of the dawn.

              214

              Our desire lends the colours of the rainbow to the mere mists and vapours of life.

              215

              God waits to win back his own flowers as gifts from man's hands.

              216

              My sad thoughts tease me asking me their own names.

              217

              The service of the fruit is precious, the service of the flower is sweet, but let my service be the service of the leaves in its shade of humble devotion.

              218

              My heart has spread its sails to the idle winds for the shadowy island of Anywhere.

              219

              Men are cruel, but Man is kind.

              220

              Make me thy cup and let my fulness be for thee and for thine.

              221

              The storm is like the cry of some god in pain whose love the earth refuses.

              222

              The world does not leak because death is not a crack.

              223

              Life has become richer by the love that has been lost.

              224

              My friend, your great heart shone with the sunrise of the East like the snowy summit of a lonely hill in the dawn.

              225

              The fountain of death makes the still water of life play.

              226

              Those who have everything but thee, my God, laugh at those who have nothing but thyself.

              227

              The movement of life has its rest in its own music.

              228

              Kicks only raise dust and not crops from the earth.

              229

              Our names are the light that glows on the sea waves at night and then dies without leaving its signature.

              230

              Let him only see the thorns who has eyes to see the rose.

              231

              Set bird's wings with gold and it will never again soar in the sky.

              232

              The same lotus of our clime blooms here in the alien water with the same sweetness, under another name.

              233

              In heart's perspective the distance looms large.

              234

              The moon has her light all over the sky, her dark spots to herself.

              235

              Do not say, "It is morning," and dismiss it with a name of yesterday. See it for the first time as a new-born child that has no name.

              236

              Smoke boasts to the sky, and Ashes to the earth, that they are brothers to the fire.

              237

              The raindrop whispered to the jasmine, "Keep me in your heart for ever." The jasmine sighed, "Alas," and dropped to the ground.

              238

              Timid thoughts, do not be afraid of me.
              I am a poet.

              239

              The dim silence of my mind seems filled with crickets' chirp--the grey twilight of sound.

              240

              Rockets, your insult to the stars follows yourself back to the earth.

              241

              Thou hast led me through my crowded travels of the day to my evening's loneliness.
              I wait for its meaning through the stillness of the night.

              242

              This life is the crossing of a sea, where we meet in the same narrow ship.
              In death we reach the shore and go to our different worlds.

              243

              The stream of truth flows through its channels of mistakes.

              244

              My heart is homesick to-day for the one sweet hour across the sea of time.

              245

              The bird-song is the echo of the morning light back from the earth.

              246

              "Are you too proud to kiss me?" the morning light asks the buttercup.

              247

              "How may I sing to thee and worship, O Sun?" asked the little flower.

              "By the simple silence of thy purity," answered the sun.

              248

              Man is worse than an animal when he is an animal.

              249

              Dark clouds become heaven's flowers when kissed by light.

              250

              Let not the sword-blade mock its handle for being blunt.

              251

              The night's silence, like a deep lamp, is burning with the light of its milky way.

              252

              Around the sunny island of Life swells day and night death's limitless song of the sea.

              253

              Is not this mountain like a flower, with its petals of hills, drinking the sunlight?

              254

              The real with its meaning read wrong and emphasis misplaced is the unreal.

              255

              Find your beauty, my heart, from the world's movement, like the boat that has the grace of the wind and the water.

              256

              The eyes are not proud of their sight but of their eyeglasses.

              257

              I live in this little world of mine and am afraid to make it the least less. Lift me into thy world and let me have the freedom gladly to lose my all.

              258

              The false can never grow into truth by growing in power.

              259

              My heart, with its lapping waves of song, longs to caress this green world of the sunny day.

              260

              Wayside grass, love the star, then your dreams will come out in flowers.

              261

              Let your music, like a sword, pierce the noise of the market to its heart.

              262

              The trembling leaves of this tree touch my heart like the fingers of an infant child.

              263

              This sadness of my soul is her bride's veil.
              It waits to be lifted in the night.

              264

              The little flower lies in the dust. It sought the path of the butterfly.

              265

              I am in the world of the roads. The night comes. Open thy gate, thou world of the home.

              266

              I have sung the songs of thy day. In the evening let me carry thy lamp through the stormy path.

              267

              I do not ask thee into the house. Come into my infinite loneliness, my Lover.

              268

              Death belongs to life as birth does. The walk is in the raising of the foot as in the laying of it down.

              269

              I have learnt the simple meaning of thy whispers in flowers and sunshine--teach me to know thy words in pain and death.

              270

              The night's flower was late when the morning kissed her, she shivered and sighed and dropped to the ground.

              271

              Through the sadness of all things I hear the crooning of the Eternal Mother.

              272

              I came to your shore as a stranger, I lived in your house as a guest, I leave your door as a friend, my earth.

              273

              Let my thoughts come to you, when I am gone, like the afterglow of sunset at the margin of starry silence.

              274

              Light in my heart the evening star of rest and then let the night whisper to me of love.

              275

              I am a child in the dark.
              I stretch my hands through the coverlet of night for thee, Mother.

              276

              The day of work is done. Hide my face in your arms, Mother. Let me dream.

              277

              The lamp of meeting burns long; it goes out in a moment at the parting.

              278

              One word keep for me in thy silence, O World, when I am dead, "I have loved."

              279

              We live in this world when we love it.

              280

              Let the dead have the immortality of fame, but the living the immortality of love.

              281

              I have seen thee as the half-awakened child sees his mother in the dusk of the dawn and then smiles and sleeps again.

              282

              I shall die again and again to know that life is inexhaustible.

              283

              While I was passing with the crowd in the road I saw thy smile from the balcony and I sang and forgot all noise.

              284

              Love is life in its fulness like the cup with its wine.

              285

              They light their own lamps and sing their own words in their temples.
              But the birds sing thy name in thine own morning light,--for thy name is joy.

              286

              Lead me in the centre of thy silence to fill my heart with songs.

              287

              Let them live who choose in their own hissing world of fireworks.
              My heart longs for thy stars, my God.

              288

              Love's pain sang round my life like the unplumbed sea, and love's joy sang like birds in its flowering groves.

              289

              Put out the lamp when thou wishest.
              I shall know thy darkness and shall love it.

              290

              When I stand before thee at the day's end thou shalt see my scars and know that I had my wounds and also my healing.

              291

              Some day I shall sing to thee in the sunrise of some other world,
              "I have seen thee before in the light of the earth, in the love of man."

              292

              Clouds come floating into my life from other days no longer to shed rain or usher storm but to give colour to my sunset sky.

              293

              Truth raises against itself the storm that scatters its seeds broadcast.

              294

              The storm of the last night has crowned this morning with golden peace.

              295

              Truth seems to come with its final word; and the final word gives birth to its next.

              296

              Blessed is he whose fame does not outshine his truth.

              297

              Sweetness of thy name fills my heart when I forget mine--like thy morning sun when the mist is melted.

              298

              The silent night has the beauty of the mother and the clamorous day of the child.

              299

              The world loved man when he smiled. The world became afraid of him when he laughed.

              300

              God waits for man to regain his childhood in wisdom.

              301

              Let me feel this world as thy love taking form, then my love will help it.

              302

              Thy sunshine smiles upon the winter days of my heart, never doubting of its spring flowers.

              303

              God kisses the finite in his love and man the infinite.

              304

              Thou crossest desert lands of barren years to reach the moment of fulfilment.

              305

              God's silence ripens man's thoughts into speech.

              306

              Thou wilt find, Eternal Traveller, marks of thy footsteps across my songs.

              307

              Let me not shame thee, Father, who displayest thy glory in thy children.

              308

              Cheerless is the day, the light under frowning clouds is like a punished child with traces of tears on its pale cheeks, and the cry of the wind is like the cry of a wounded world. But I know I am travelling to meet my Friend.

              309

              To-night there is a stir among the palm leaves, a swell in the sea, Full Moon, like the heart throb of the world. From what unknown sky hast thou carried in thy silence the aching secret of love?

              310

              I dream of a star, an island of light, where I shall be born and in the depth of its quickening leisure my life will ripen its works like the ricefield in the autumn sun.

              311

              The smell of the wet earth in the rain rises like a great chant of praise from the voiceless multitude of the insignificant.

              312

              That love can ever lose is a fact that we cannot accept as truth.

              313

              We shall know some day that death can never rob us of that which our soul has gained, for her gains are one with herself.

              314

              God comes to me in the dusk of my evening with the flowers from my past kept fresh in his basket.

              315

              When all the strings of my life will be tuned, my Master, then at every touch of thine will come out the music of love.

              316

              Let me live truly, my Lord, so that death to me become true.

              317

              Man's history is waiting in patience for the triumph of the insulted man.

              318

              I feel thy gaze upon my heart this moment like the sunny silence of the morning upon the lonely field whose harvest is over.

              319

              I long for the Island of Songs across this heaving Sea of Shouts.

              320

              The prelude of the night is commenced in the music of the sunset, in its solemn hymn to the ineffable dark.

              321

              I have scaled the peak and found no shelter in fame's bleak and barren height. Lead me, my Guide, before the light fades, into the valley of quiet where life's harvest mellows into golden wisdom.

              322

              Things look phantastic in this dimness of the dusk--the spires whose bases are lost in the dark and tree tops like blots of ink. I shall wait for the morning and wake up to see thy city in the light.

              323

              I have suffered and despaired and known death and I am glad that I am in this great world.

              324

              There are tracts in my life that are bare and silent. They are the open spaces where my busy days had their light and air.

              325

              Release me from my unfulfilled past clinging to me from behind making death difficult.

              326

              Let this be my last word, that I trust in thy love.
              • oh deer...make zat nixed to last...

                Sat, January 3, 2009 - 7:58 PM
                ze preceding was ze brain-wrenching recitation by ze always-late Madame Gonzaga ov Dingleberry Lane :

                Stray Birds

                By Rabindranath Tagore

                [as translated from Bengali to English by the author]

                New York: The Macmillan Company, 1916

                Arrrrrroooooooooooooooo!
                • This post was deleted by Madame Gonzaga
                  • This is the maximum depth. Additional responses will not be threaded.

                    Re: Ahem.

                    Sun, January 11, 2009 - 5:19 PM
                    The first time I overdrew my bank account
                    was because I
                    bought as many Jimi Hendrix records
                    as possible.
                    at the time
                    I was unemployed
                  • This is the maximum depth. Additional responses will not be threaded.

                    Re: Ahem.

                    Sun, January 11, 2009 - 5:26 PM
                    I've decided.
                    God is a self-righteous
                    controller.

                    I'm a sinner.
                    Fuck it.

                    Whisky
                    Sex... unsanctioned
                    blasphemous thoughts

                    At least I do it religiously.
                    • Baker's Dozen?

                      Sun, January 11, 2009 - 5:38 PM
                      Nice work Mike. Religion and booze make for a good muse.

                      Here's my trail of tears, I meant to stop sooner but I keep rambling on. I've recorded about half of them but aim to get a better front-person eventually:

                      breakingupishardtodo.tribe.net/th...70c
                      • tippy tap tippy tap tippy tap...

                        Tue, January 13, 2009 - 10:55 AM
                        Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.
                        ~Rabindranath Tagore
                        • Ahem.

                          Tue, January 13, 2009 - 11:11 AM
                          The water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark. The small truth has words which are clear; the great truth has great silence.
                          ~Rabindranath Tagore
                          • Plagiarists go to Heaven.

                            Mon, January 19, 2009 - 5:54 PM
                            Lokifreign's attempted plagiarism has been duly noted.
                            • Re: Plagiarists go to Heaven.

                              Sat, February 21, 2009 - 11:45 PM
                              >> Lokifreign's attempted plagiarism has been duly noted. <<

                              uhhhhh wtf?


                              HEY MG:

                              I really can't go on with this particular pattern so ... should I just exit? Other option for me is to start chewing on this person without being particularly funny or creative in any wise; I'm just not in the place I was when I was able to effortlessly withstand the weird hatred thing that I seem to provoke in some. So... er uh... ?

                              I'm not what I was last year so I haven't any particular shame right now about saying that I'm very weak, in a lot of hurt, psychologically compromised, afraid, angry, full of hate, full of bitterness and not really all that good-humored or inclined to being witty that much these days... I don't want to be a problem. Should I go? It's great to sort of slightly potentially have your friendship again but I can't stay ... well, you know.

                              I have too much hurt and a real need for community and so forth
                              • Jackasses Live in a Hell of their Own Creation

                                Sun, February 22, 2009 - 3:27 PM
                                Loki don't play dumb. You posted a poem by Rabindranath Tagore without citing him as the author. I mentioned your oversight. Andersatan/Ubersatan picked up on it and was having some fun with you over it, and the Madame responded with an attempt to explain away your faux pas with a sweet post.

                                Would you like her to boot those who made note of your "borrowing" of the piece, as you've liberally done with many other pieces in the past on here as well?

                                It's a shame you are sick, I hope you recover soon. But to ask the madame for some sort of--what? Redemption? Back up?---when you have treated her so poorly is simply ridiculous. You are in several tribes of haters who have for years tried to break her, have lied about her, and stalk her (quite poorly and with incorrect information, but it's still alarming and vile). You are part of the dingleberry doppelganger posse of liars, so what I'm saying will come as no surprise. In fact you were even part of what killed this tribe's fun nature and chased MG out with your jealous weirdness and pack mentality to begin with.

                                In this fucked up history most recently you acted treacherously towards MG behind her back whilst being friendly to her personally as she was attempting to make something good of the TOU Watchdog tribe at your request. She tried to make a good choice on who to hand that off to and I believe she made good selections and the tribe will carry on. For this you come into her tribe and bellyache about your weak psychological condition? You are bringing your illness upon yourself by nursing hate in your heart and allowing yourself to run with weak-minded idiots like those in your hateful mockery tribes.

                                What more do you want from MG? The good Lord can only guess I suppose. I can scarcely believe she will even bother to respond to you and your horrid "friends" anymore at this point. You are like zombie vampires, jealous/spiteful/full of hate/wanting only to hurt.

                                WTF? Even my divorce wasn't this acrimonious and it got pretty ugly near the end when it came to divvying up the assets.

                                To my knowledge, MG has moved on out of here for good and I hope she doesn't even see this further affront to the kindness she's afforded you despite the pack of hateful lying wolves you run with.

                                Leave this place in peace. Lick your wounds in SOT's or Stjaman's private hate tribes. Have sqweekle lick your nutsack as he turns blue in anger at MG's successes in life and tries to down talk her and sends her links to your betrayals through his alts since she's placed most of you idiots on "ignore." But be sure to watch your back lest they get the scent of blood and make you their next target.

                                MG, I hope you don't bother to respond to these fuckwads anymore. Change this tribe to "moderated" or make it private and LET GO once and for all.

                                I love you and I can't wait to hear about the fancy Academy party!!!! Speaking of which, it's time to don my party dress.

                                ****smooches to those who deserve 'em, cooches to them who earn 'em, and douches to those who need 'em!!!!!****

                                • OT correction--I'll leave you with a poem.

                                  Sun, February 22, 2009 - 3:36 PM
                                  Now to get back on topic, a poem for MG:

                                  STRUGGLE WITH THE ANGEL

                                  God knows who first thought up
                                  that gloomy image
                                  and spoke of the dead
                                  as living shades
                                  straying about amongst us.

                                  And yet those shades are really here --
                                  you can’t miss them.
                                  Over the years I’ve gathered around me
                                  a numerous cluster.
                                  But it is I amidst them all
                                  who is straying.

                                  They’re dark
                                  and their muteness keeps time
                                  with my muteness
                                  when the evening’s closing in
                                  and I’m alone.
                                  Now and again they stay my writing hand
                                  when I’m not right,
                                  and blow away an evil thought
                                  that’s painful.

                                  Some of them are so dim
                                  and faded
                                  I’m losing sight of them in the distance.
                                  One of the shades, however, is rose-red
                                  and weeps.
                                  In every person’s life
                                  there comes a moment
                                  when everything suddenly goes black before his eyes
                                  and he longs passionately to take in his hands
                                  a smiling head.
                                  His heart wants to be tied
                                  to another heart,
                                  even by deep stitches,
                                  while his lips desire nothing more
                                  than to touch down on the spots where
                                  the midnight raven settled on Pallas Athene
                                  when uninvited it flew in to visit
                                  a melancholy poet.

                                  It is called love.
                                  All right,
                                  perhaps that’s what it is!
                                  But only rarely does it last for long,
                                  let alone unto death
                                  as in the case of swans.
                                  Often loves succeed each other
                                  like suits of cards in your hand.

                                  Sometimes it’s just a tremor of delight,
                                  more often long and bitter pain.
                                  At other times all sighs and tears.
                                  And sometimes even boredom.
                                  That’s the saddest kind.

                                  Some time in the past I saw a rose-red shade.
                                  It stood by the entrance to a house
                                  facing Prague’s railway station,
                                  eternally swathed in smoke.

                                  We used to sit there by the window.
                                  I held her delicate hands
                                  and talked of love.
                                  I’m good at that!
                                  She’s long been dead.
                                  The red lights were winking
                                  down by the track.

                                  As soon as the wind sprang up a little
                                  it blew away the grey veil
                                  and the rails glistened
                                  like the strings of some monstrous piano.
                                  At times you could also hear the whistle of steam
                                  and the puffing of engines
                                  as they carried off people’s wretched longings
                                  from the grimy platforms
                                  to all possible destinations.
                                  Sometimes they also carried away the dead
                                  returning to their homes
                                  and to their cemeteries.

                                  Now I know why it hurts so
                                  to tear hand from hand,
                                  lips from lips,
                                  when the stitches tear
                                  and the guard slams shut
                                  the last carriage door.

                                  Love’s an eternal struggle with the angel.
                                  From dawn to night.
                                  Without mercy.
                                  The opponent is often stronger.
                                  But woe to him
                                  who doesn’t realize
                                  that his angel has no wings
                                  and will not bless.

                                  JAROSLAV SEIFERT
                                  tr. from the Czech by
                                  EWALD OSERS
                                  • Aroooo0000OOOOOO00000oooo!

                                    Sun, February 22, 2009 - 4:22 PM
                                    www.youtube.com/watch
                                    Champagne Supernova
                                    by Oasis

                                    How many special people change
                                    How many lives are living strange
                                    Where were you when we were getting high?
                                    Slowly walking down the hall
                                    Faster than Lucy Cannonball
                                    Where were you while we were getting high?

                                    Some day you will find me
                                    Caught beneath the landslide
                                    In a champagne supernova in the sky
                                    Some day you will find me
                                    Caught beneath the landslide
                                    In a champagne supernova
                                    A champagne supernova in the sky

                                    Wake up the dawn and ask her why
                                    A dreamer dreams she never dies
                                    Wipe that tear away now from your eye
                                    Slowly walking down the hall
                                    Faster than a cannon ball
                                    Where were you when we were getting high?

                                    Some day you will find me
                                    Caught beneath the landslide
                                    In a champagne supernova in the sky
                                    Some day you will find me
                                    Caught beneath the landslide
                                    In a champagne supernova
                                    A champagne supernova in the sky

                                    Cos people believe that they're
                                    Gonna get away for the summer
                                    But you and I, we live and die
                                    The world's still spinning round
                                    We don't know why
                                    Why, why, why, why

                                    How many special people change
                                    How many lives are living strange
                                    Where were you when we were getting high?
                                    Slowly walking down the hall
                                    Faster than a cannon ball
                                    Where were you while we were getting high?

                                    Some day you will find me
                                    Caught beneath the landslide
                                    In a champagne supernova in the sky
                                    Some day you will find me
                                    Caught beneath the landslide
                                    In a champagne supernova
                                    A champagne supernova in the sky

                                    Cos people believe that they're
                                    Gonna get away for the summer
                                    But you and I, we live and die
                                    The world's still spinning round
                                    We don't know why
                                    Why, why, why, why

                                    How many special people change
                                    How many lives are living strange
                                    Where were you when we were getting high?
                                    We were getting high
                                    We were getting high
                                    We were getting high
                                    We were getting high


                                    Hee! snarfle. kak.
                                    {{{Lucy Cannonballs}}}

                                    I veal pop ze corgi in honor ov mein time on Dingleberry Lane in aboooot 3 sexxxingsonds...MUAH!!!

                                    (live from ze Mad Ham's iphone--it's Oscar gone Wilde Night!!!!)
                                • this is a prose poem

                                  Mon, February 23, 2009 - 4:35 PM
                                  >>Loki don't play dumb. You posted a poem by Rabindranath Tagore without citing him as the author.<<

                                  Oops yeah; sorry about that. I actually am pretty dumb though - it's not an act. Many attribute guile to me that is - I assure you - very much unwarranted / unearned. I'm on autopilot 99% of the time, and when I'm thinking about what I'm posting, it's usually an attempt to delete evil things I've said to someone in a pending post and am trying to come up with insults that are more fair / strike me as funnier / less personal. I try, but often fail, to stop myself from posting angrily. It's a failing. Boy howdy am I getting the shit for it, now.

                                  For future reference:

                                  I only put the author when it's me. I'll address that failing anon. When on the internet I'm not thinking "formal" - & more or less assume any poetry-fan-person will either know immediately who it is or can use google.

                                  A review of the poem in question reveals one very obvious and salient "it's definitely not Loki's" clue: I'm not a monotheist, and make strident and constant expressions to that effect.

                                  But yeah: I don't claim that work, nor authorship of any other ever presented on the internet by me, anywhere, ever, that doesn't contain attribution to me. Tagore demands no attribution, as far as I know, but I suppose I should have, though to be honest I don't really *feel* that so much as acknowledge that others do. Assume that any poetry or other literature I post is someone else's work; google the text and discover the rest of the good stuff.

                                  I tend *not* to post my own "formal" work to the internet. It's a habit.


                                  Also:
                                  I call for the elimination of no one. I ask nothing of mods regarding who they have on board. I don't "de-friend" on the basis of association, and I don't participate in feuds that don't involve me (even ignoring a % of those that do).


                                  Personally, I feel I've been handed an increasingly unfair deal over the past few months from this gang. I forgive, but it's getting rough.

                                  I didn't do any of the weird shit I'm accused of. I don't do / plan / orchestrate the things I'm accused of. I don't involve myself with the weird shit that goes on between the various denizens of the friend list. Only recently have I ever "defriended" someone - they were all people that MG suggested were mean and whom I determined on examination weren't important to keep around / assumed wouldn't be hurt if I just quietly stopped them from being able to read my blog, which does occasionally contain info that can hurt me if used by the shitty.

                                  I think it's all huge and rather stupid hullabaloo;

                                  I think she and you and others are mean to me just because I'm there as a target, and currently far less able than in the past to defend myself against the hurt feelings that ensue when someone I care about turns on me.

                                  I think it's really cruel. I think MG's being pointlessly cruel to me.

                                  MG: I think your accusations are amazingly off-target. You claiming I hate you and preferring as evidence people who are on list and tribes that I'm a member of is *precisely* the "Black Thursday" situation all over again - with you using character assassination instead of unsubbing as the weapon of evil.

                                  I never did anything to you, nor to this "Ubersatan" that claims to be hatemailing me in *your* defense.

                                  I'm ashamed of myself for having almost "defriended" someone who never harmed me ever just because MG said this person was being mean to me elsewhere. When I found the pertinent stuff I was shocked that I'd believed such a mean thing about this person even for a minute. I'm really losing a lot of my reserve and linear thinking abilities lately, so, I forgive myself.

                                  But; don't call me a liar, all right? And don't pay attention to peoples' insistence that I'm "mocking" or "belittling" or whatever until you have the real facts. Don't tell me there's links to me doing / saying things if you won't show me what those links are. Don't call me names. Don't actually try to coax me into killing myself before the appointed time comes. That's just not nice to my wife - and she makes all of us look like evil spoiled children. She doesn't deserve to bear the brunt of the pain being visited on me by all these crazily acrimonious and rabidly-addicted-to-drama-conflict weirdos.

                                  ESPECIALLY: don't send hate mail unless it's really, really funny. (IOW: keep it up Ubersatan! I haven't laughed that sincerely in a while)

                                  Before anyone mews "omg why in a public thread" consider the very public torment and constant cruel accusations so many of you have participated in. It's exactly why I gave MG the TOUW group: I was *sick* of the way people publicly fucked with her and I thought it was high time that all those bastards got shown for what they really are. It was a lark - but it tendered the first glimpses of involuntary honesty from many these people yet, on this server.

                                  I never intended to hurt *anyone* that didn't first hurt me or a loved one. I've never said *anything* unkind to MG before or since the time I felt she was backstabbing me after I'd worked so hard to defend her to and protect her from her tormentors. When I realized who was really to blame, I apologized to her publicly and amended everything I could on the record to reflect what I felt (and still feel) is the truth.

                                  Both she and I have been manipulated by people who really *do* have weird guile-oriented and hate-motivated agendas, for whatever psycho reason. I am not to blame. If you think I am - you have to make that case to me if you seek restitution, or just my guilt&shame.

                                  I formally - and yes very publicly - request that, if you aren't going to give me your friendship, you'll at least just leave me alone from now on. If not for the sake of simply being a good person, do it for my wife, who actually *is* a really and truly good person and shouldn't have to be dealing with this ugly and childish mess. Sending her stuff is beyond low.

                                  I don't "report" people - I don't cry to the teacher when someone fucks with me, but if my wife receives so much as an e-card from anyone in this pogrom ever again, it will be the cops, and lawyers. Just what we've gotten so far is actionable, legally, and already witnessed by a lawyer, so take this seriously if nothing else: you *will* not threaten me again, whoever you are.
                                  • Re: this is a prose poem

                                    Mon, February 23, 2009 - 5:39 PM
                                    PS:

                                    I'm low and mean enough a man to hope that on some level there's at least some capacity for *shame* at having tormented someone who was *always* honest with you, and by far more consistently loving to you - then and now - than you are willing to give him credit for.

                                    I felt shame, and I expressed it, and I apologized to you, and I tried to help you. Again: you turned on me.

                                    Why? You never answered that, before, either. Why do this to me?

                                    Do I seem like a guileful, cool, cruel, hipstery teflon guy to you right now?
                                    • Re: this is your conscience speaking

                                      Mon, February 23, 2009 - 7:10 PM
                                      LF: You must be confusing me with your buddy SOT who recently sent me the following links (in addition to many where you viciously piss on MG's name but to which I will not be goaded into linking to herein) via one of his many transparent trolls:
                                      tribes.tribe.net/3olivedir...8f23f7d0bc
                                      tribes.tribe.net/satansclu...6905b7f626

                                      Unless SOT is correct and you are drug-addled I would bet that you know to which disparaging posts I refer. You cannot have it both ways. You cannot be Madame's friend while plotting against her with that dullish band of alts, middle-aged failed morons and hags (as SOT himself refers to the lonely unattractive women who support his sick works). What a nice community you've built in your hateful tribute tribes. You treat one another even worse than you treat your chosen targets. The one true Satan would be pleased if this weren't his special time of the month.

                                      You say you seek community yet you come in here to take a dump in the one MG has sought to build and you helped to destroy the one you asked her to help salvage. I agree that many showed their true colors during that little exercise so on one point we are in agreement. Maybe we need to just nod and cross pitchforks. Both live to fight another day?

                                      But first how about we cut out the ball sucking and talk turkey you freak. I believe you are lying about your wife being contacted and if you do happen to be telling the truth I can't take credit. Even the one true Satan would not stoop to such a level. That's more in the style of lesser demons. If your better half was dragged into your shit-fest you should look to the West towards your rat fink friends who are probably loving it that they've got you attacking MG again and may have decided to add a little twist to really send you over the edge.

                                      Look what they tried to do to djarum by slyly asking people to not post in her watchdog tribe anymore, consider what they overlook in how SOT and the garden gnome suggest you are coked up, drugged out or high. They plot. They speak out both sides of their evil mouths. Their tongues are forked. Their complexions sallow. Are you blind?

                                      I do not think SOT is correct that you are drug-addled but I do believe you that you are in need of community and low of spirit. I see no thread or post in which MG attempts to inflict pain on you but rather only posts here and in TOU Watchdog where she tried to build you up and even to explain your plagiarism in a gentle way.

                                      Yet you come here and publicly air your stinky balls once more trying to solicit her pity.

                                      I hope someone did try to drag your wife into this. Maybe it will help you realize how I feel about the strange creeps who tail MG, a woman I find stunningly wonderful and undeserving of such smear campaigns and stalking by the likes of that mincing squeakhole, dullard Goofaman, drunken SOT and stjman. Those boys really have some issues and it makes me feel mighty uncomfortable for the Madame's personal safety. Based on your post, it seems we are on agreement in this issue, too. Maybe we aren't so different, you and I.

                                      Grab a few jars of Crisco and let's discuss our differences over a bed of hot coals.

                                      What these idiots do is take a small story, twist it into a gigantic lie and tell it over and over again in attempt to make someone believe it. I am stunned that someone with your potential would even bother with their low wit.

                                      Have that lawyer of yours take a look at YOUR harvest and that of your MG hate-tribe creating pack of lying wolves before you begin eagerly eyeing *my* cornstalks.

                                      Or just shut the fuck up, climb out of the Madame's ass hairs, post a picture of your juicy man-breasts, and give me a big wet anal kiss. You know you want to.

                                      • Neither poem nor haiku. What then?

                                        Mon, February 23, 2009 - 7:33 PM
                                        Damn it.
                                        I swore to Madame I'd butt out.

                                        Fuck her. I'm the one true Satan.
                                        How's that for clout?

                                        Shit.

                                        I hope she doesn't bite me.
                                        Quick! Hide me in your ass, Loki!!!
                                        • This has nothing to do with anything else here.

                                          Mon, February 23, 2009 - 7:48 PM
                                          But WTF is wrong with that Shatter guy? Does he really work for tribe as I've heard?

                                          Because he's just about the most obnoxious, unkind, stupid boorish overweight #1 Dee to the Jay I've encountered on this message board.

                                          Just one stunning example of his special kind of nasty:

                                          tribes.tribe.net/satansclu...713d3a8fdc

                                          Who needs the one true Satan when tribe.net's own employees are that vicious towards developmentally disabled children and tribers they perceive as weak but who dwarf them mentally like the sun overpowers a single match? He gives even the one true Satan the creeps.

                                          For an encore maybe he'll stab a puppy!

                                          Oh ho! And look here! Those boys are busy tonight.

                                          A jealous SOT dressed in a clown suit!!!! I guess the Blue Janes didn't go over so big so he's back to stalking djarum and trying to murder her fun.
                                          tribes.tribe.net/satansclu...7f164a7433

                                          Unholy Shit! Shatter can has another dozen cheeseburgers before attacking Lokifreign? My guess is that boy isn't even reading at the GED level. Shall we give him an "A" for the effort he put into what is probably what he considers his finest bit of writing ever?
                                          tribes.tribe.net/doppelgan...514251ddd6

                                          Bwahahahahahahahahaha!

                                          Yes. My work here is truly done. What kind of horrible clowns behave that way towards others in a community called "tribe"? Why not build your own community up rather than creating a space to tear others' down? What is the point? How does that serve anyone except me?

                                          The one true Satan is proud of their demonic works, of course. But something within me still feels skeeved out by their very existence in this "community." What's worse than them? Those who support them or look on in silence. Those folks are even worse.

                                          Good luck. I'm sure I'll be seeing many of you very soon.

                                          Stay clean, MG.








                                          I guess I'll just head back to Alaska. Sarah needs me right now anyway.
                                          • FuXXX.

                                            Mon, February 23, 2009 - 9:04 PM
                                            Less cock fightings.
                                            More poetry.
                                            Donkeys.
                                            • A google eyed mustache man
                                              on a recumbent bicycle
                                              pedals around,
                                              all callow and fickle.

                                              No flag, no decals;
                                              no graffiti, it's black;
                                              the reflectors are practical
                                              and there's a neat cargo pack;

                                              but he's hardly engaged
                                              in routine commute.
                                              He's circling the park
                                              in a "look at me" route.

                                              There's something... not right.
                                              It's his whole presentation.
                                              That he's concealing something glares out,
                                              to me, as affectation.

                                              He's possibly a perv; you know;
                                              cruising for kiddies,
                                              scanning for pickings while chatting with
                                              artsy old biddies.

                                              His glance darts in a way
                                              that folks like me spot
                                              and this instinct's on target
                                              more often than not

                                              and I'm telling you,
                                              this guy's up to no good.
                                              He's bad news.
                                              Avoid him? Yeah; you really should.

                                              Now, this is not to disparage
                                              taking recumbent bikes for a cruise,
                                              juggling, prestidigitation, jazz
                                              or general mustache dudes,

                                              but these combined vibes plus the eyes
                                              and furtive air,
                                              the roaming quest for attention
                                              and the ridiculous hair

                                              add up to a picture
                                              that warns some of us
                                              that you are, most likely,
                                              tedious or dangerous.

                                              Any hint of either is plenty.
                                              • Now zat's moron lyke it!!!

                                                Tue, February 24, 2009 - 5:00 AM
                                                Arrrroooo00000000OOOOOOOOOOO0000000000oooooooooo!
                                                ::::Donkey Golfcart Clap::::

                                                Zat's ze spifffy bicycle aryooooo gots there, Lokifreign.

                                                Orr eez zat SOT under ze 'stache? hrrrrrm.

                                                Hard to tell in ze shadows
                                                und with so many shades about.

                                                Ander/UberSatan?
                                                Mr. Fite?
                                                Ma'Mo?
                                                Harold? He's ze newt vun!
                                                Baby Jane?! An olde fave.
                                                Buster Fiendly????


                                                Purrhaps it's jest ze thought zat counts und
                                                ze face behind
                                                ze face behind
                                                ze face behind
                                                ze face behind ze 'stache donut muddle.

                                                Crappity.
                                                Kak!
                                                HAY!!!!
                                                Aryooooo ran over mein tale.
                                                I ham ginna give aryooo ze fat tire!


                                                Hee! snarfle. kak.









                                                FuXXX!

                                                It's way too oily for ze artsy olde biddy to have to be at ze workings. Und no caffeeeeeeeeeine shop fur miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiles around.

                                                I wish ze Starfuxxx woood deliver.

                                                Ze nice drive-by service starrring ze fiendly trolll on ze reclining bicycle? Skin by with ze mocha und ze madness? Purrhaps pedal past like ze wind und drop offff ze XXXX-large mooooocha, ze nicing Italian biscottttti und ze jazzy one-liner right here at ze mein office window inbeastween ze rocks und ze hot place?

                                                I ham ze handsome tippler.

                                                • Re: Now zat's moron lyke it!!!

                                                  Tue, February 24, 2009 - 12:49 PM
                                                  damn - Buster. Fudge. Bourbon.

                                                  sigh

                                                  Yeah; I try to let the alts be who they are and don't make a point of looking past them - anyhoo:
                                                  • Haiku of the Happy Boy - by Happy Boy

                                                    Tue, February 24, 2009 - 12:51 PM
                                                    ~"Dad"~
                                                    I'll never answer
                                                    so stop calling my cell phone
                                                    you useless fucker.

                                                    ~Look~
                                                    I'm not pissed at you.
                                                    I'm really mad at myself.
                                                    Now, please go away.

                                                    ~Love~
                                                    Wouldn't it be great
                                                    if I woke up one day and
                                                    could just fucking leave?

                                                    ~Party~
                                                    If I drink enough,
                                                    maybe I'll die, finally.
                                                    Then, it's your problem.


                                                    ~You & Me Are Pretty Much the Same Huh~
                                                    It's amusing; you
                                                    actually think your thoughts
                                                    matter, somehow.

                                                    ~Love II~
                                                    Please, let's not speak, now.
                                                    Our moment has arrived, Love.
                                                    Shut up and fuck me.
                                                    • Something Sinister ~ by Lokifreign

                                                      Tue, February 24, 2009 - 1:25 PM
                                                      There is something sinister
                                                      about sitting in the city
                                                      feeling empty and unclear.
                                                      Setting on mind’s horizon line the swine draw closer still.
                                                      Still, we never quite lose sight of promises we earned.
                                                      Still our fights consume dead nights
                                                      and still our doors are closed.
                                                      Bruised brain makes heart pump strains
                                                      of song that veins must bear in pain,
                                                      wisps of hair lift strangely where
                                                      six lanes of sorrow cruise.
                                                      • You wanted me to be tamed;
                                                        you all did.
                                                        You said how it had to be.
                                                        You were wise
                                                        and I was foolish
                                                        to have listened.
                                                        Now I'm broken.
                                                        Now I'm ill,
                                                        and tamed, fit
                                                        for your beautiful
                                                        world of beautiful
                                                        people who shrink from the
                                                        regrettable wilderness.
                                                        I can't run away.
                                                        I'm tethered and twisting uptight
                                                        to the tree.
                                                        If I try to run,
                                                        I'll choke.
                                                        So I stay.

                                                        I wish it were true
                                                        that I could let
                                                        the wilderness go
                                                        out of me to kill you all
                                                        but I can't let it go
                                                        and it is inside me
                                                        and it doesn't kill me.
                                                        It's worse.
                                                        It makes me live.
                                                        Life has become suffering.
                                                        But I have learned to give.
                                                        I give as good as I get.
                                                        I get as good as I give.
                                                        You might know me.
                                                        You may have seen it at some point.
                                                        Curled in your mouth.
                                                        Growing a flower.
                                                        Hiding behind your trash can.
                                                        Hiding behind your dreams.
                                                        Taking notes.
                                                        Watching you go about your day.

                                                        I wish it were true
                                                        that I could let
                                                        the wilderness go
                                                        out of me to kill you
                                                        but I am just not evil enough.
                                                        So it is inside me
                                                        and there it will stay.
                                                        It's a nasty job
                                                        that doesn't pay.
                                                        Life has become waiting
                                                        and I have learned how to play;
                                                        to pass the time
                                                        I time the past.
                                                        You may remember.
                                                        You were probably there.
                                                        Clamped on my leg.
                                                        Sucking my blood.
                                                        Hiding behind my love.
                                                        Hiding behind my dreams.
                                                        Taking notes.
                                                        Watching me waste away.
                                                        • nothing so beautiful nor as perfectly red
                                                          as the flowers that seeped through his once lovely head
                                                          what was once happy lay before us all, dead
                                                          • Creative Commons Licence

                                                            Tue, February 24, 2009 - 1:33 PM
                                                            All above poems by Lokifreign and Happy Boy are
                                                            ©© (Creative Commons) Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License
                                                            • Re: Creative Commons Licence

                                                              Tue, February 24, 2009 - 10:05 PM
                                                              Arrrrrrooooooo0000OOOOO0000using good works Lokifreign.

                                                              Mangy donkeys fur sharing your defrightful brainpain on Dingleberry Lane.

                                                              I found mein elf loooxing over mein haunches for ze googly-eyed monsieur on ze funny bicycle alllll daze.

                                                              Ze haiku set was gently disturbing und poignant. Ze rose poem epitheticalish.

                                                              Ze long rant ov ze otters wishes bittersweeeeet. Ze poet in your heart springs infernal.

                                                              Mangy blessings on your further weirdings. Writhing becomes aryoooooo.
                                              • Epistemology #5: The building block of man's knowledge

                                                The building-block of man's knowledge is the concept of an "existent"—of something that exists, be it a thing, an attribute or an action. Since it is a concept, man cannot grasp it explicitly until he has reached the conceptual stage. But it is implicit in every percept (to perceive a thing is to perceive that it exists) and man grasps it implicitly on the perceptual level—i.e., he grasps the constituents of the concept "existent," the data which are later to be integrated by that concept. It is this implicit knowledge that permits his consciousness to develop further.

                                                (It may be supposed that the concept "existent" is implicit even on the level of sensations—if and to the extent that a consciousness is able to discriminate on that level. A sensation is a sensation of something, as distinguished from the nothing of the preceding and succeeding moments. A sensation does not tell man what exists, but only that it exists.)

                                                --Ayn Rand, Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology, 1. Cognition and Measurement
                                                • Rat - Terrier Tribute

                                                  Sun, March 1, 2009 - 8:22 PM
                                                  Oh luminescent, immortal soul
                                                  of a Terrier twice years passed away
                                                  without dimming or tarnish
                                                  you weather the storms
                                                  of hackers, trolls and sociopaths.
                                                  Neither Bad Advice
                                                  nor Short Attention Spans
                                                  could inspire such loyalty
                                                  from so many losers!
                                                  So put your trout in a laundry basket
                                                  and raise it high for the happiest Medium
                                                  long live Dead Madame Gonzaga!!
                                                  • Re: Rat - Terrier Tribute

                                                    Mon, March 2, 2009 - 9:39 PM
                                                    Hee! I blooosh. I ham overcome with ze fluffly sediment. Mangy donkeys deer Patric. Your metered weirdings are timed perfectingsly to worm ze icicles in mein hearts und toddle mee off to ze ethereal furever slumberlandings with ze grinkle on mein furry double-chin. Arrrooooooousing!

                                                    Und now, ze weirding from ze past...take ze listen if you're willlling, ze recitationings eez allways ze delight on zeez fine gentleman's site und whilst I fluff to read ze pooems, hearing zem spoken adds ze sparkling dimension ov magic und wonder:

                                                    classicpoetryaloud.podOmatic.com/e...00


                                                    ahem. KAK!!!

                                                    _____________________



                                                    Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam*

                                                    They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
                                                    Love and desire and hate:
                                                    I think they have no portion in us after
                                                    We pass the gate.

                                                    They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
                                                    Out of a misty dream
                                                    Our path emerges for a while, then closes
                                                    Within a dream.

                                                    ~Ernest Dowson

                                                    ____________________________

                                                    *ze brief sum ov life forbids us ze hope ov enduring long ~Homer
                                                    • Beau

                                                      Sat, March 7, 2009 - 12:18 PM
                                                      • Turn, Turn, Turn

                                                        Sat, March 7, 2009 - 12:23 PM
                                                        • Arrroooo0000OOOOO000oooooo!
                                                          • B
                                                            B
                                                            offline 218
                                                            and I was going to simply say bravo
                                                            • Fuck it.
                                                              • Fuck You Poem # 45

                                                                Fuck you in slang and conventional English.
                                                                Fuck you in lost and neglected lingoes.
                                                                Fuck you hungry and sated; faded, pock marked and defaced.
                                                                Fuck you with orange rind, fennel and anchovy paste.
                                                                Fuck you with rosemary and thyme, and fried green olives on the side.
                                                                Fuck you humidly and icily.
                                                                Fuck you farsightedly and blindly.
                                                                Fuck you nude and draped in stolen finery.

                                                                Fuck you while cells divide wildly and birds trill.
                                                                Thank you for barring me from his bedside while he was ill.
                                                                Fuck you puce and chartreuse.
                                                                Fuck you postmodern and prehistoric.
                                                                Fuck you under the influence of opium, codeine, laudanum and paregoric.
                                                                Fuck every real and imagined country you fancied yourself princess of.
                                                                Fuck you on feast days and fast days, below and above.
                                                                Fuck you sleepless and shaking for nineteen nights running.
                                                                Fuck you ugly and fuck you stunning.

                                                                Fuck you shipwrecked on the barren island of your bed.
                                                                Fuck you marching in lockstep in the ranks of the dead.
                                                                Fuck you at low and high tide.
                                                                And fuck you astride
                                                                anyone who has the bad luck to fuck you, in dank hallways,
                                                                bathrooms, or kitchens.
                                                                Fuck you in gasps and whispered benedictions.

                                                                And fuck these curses, however heartfelt and true,
                                                                that bind me, till I forgive you, to you.
                                                                • To Madame on the occasion of my departure.

                                                                  Sun, March 15, 2009 - 3:35 PM
                                                                  before I begin--Very nice choice of poems, CrabbyAnneLucyCannon! That dinner offer is always on the table.



                                                                  Now.

                                                                  Deerly Beloved MG--
                                                                  I've done my best,
                                                                  the rest is up to you.
                                                                  I believe you've made your choice.
                                                                  To lock the doors and bolt.
                                                                  Wise, probably.
                                                                  This gang was never up to your standards
                                                                  And it's always puzzled me/us/we
                                                                  Why you would bother to stoop and stop to play with their ilk.
                                                                  You are too smart too kind too important in this world to dally with such haters.
                                                                  Why?
                                                                  Nothing to be seen of value in those who have no heart even towards their own kind.
                                                                  Tis your fatal flaw, your choice to dabble in sub-humans

                                                                  It worries our souls
                                                                  But we are glad you have Others
                                                                  in us
                                                                  and them
                                                                  and continue to hope you'll stop
                                                                  allowing creeps to jam their fat heads into your pearly gates

                                                                  We wonder what you are thinking sometimes.
                                                                  But love you just the same.

                                                                  Here you go
                                                                  Here, we go
                                                                  And we are here
                                                                  Should you wish to pursue a claim.

                                                                  Dossiere:
                                                                  saltlakecity.tribe.net/templa...tail.vm

                                                                  Time was sucked from many on this
                                                                  project
                                                                  only goes to show...

                                                                  Who loves ya baby?

                                                                  Congratulations on the news which I've heard through the grapevine. Keep me roosted. Ha!

                                                                  Ever Yours, Miss Unruly,

                                                                  The one true Satan et al.
                                                                  • Unsu...
                                                                     

                                                                    Re: To Madame on the occasion of my departure.

                                                                    Sun, March 15, 2009 - 3:57 PM
                                                                    no shit! posting this in the middle of a long thread! fucking start another one.
                                                                    • Re: To Madame on the occasion of my departure.

                                                                      Sun, March 15, 2009 - 5:30 PM
                                                                      Ron: Please refer to Fuck You poem #45. ( ;



                                                                      Good work, Ubers!!! You have once again proven that intelligence and goodness is greater than dumbth and hate. I'll give dinner some thought. ;^p
                                                                      • Ze Poem in Honor ov Easter und Energy Plans

                                                                        Sun, April 12, 2009 - 7:14 AM
                                                                        Rabindranath Tagore
                                                                        Click to change your rating:

                                                                        ahem!

                                                                        Quiet Pleaseth.

                                                                        by Rabindranath Tagore (or eezat Tragore? I donut nose. I memorized ze weirdings und haven't ze time fur ze looxyloooxuppinks ov ze name...)

                                                                        IHAMLATEIHAMLATEFURZEVERYIMPORTANTDATEICANNOTSAYHALLLLLOWGOOB-EYEIHAMLATEIHAMLATEIHAMLATE.

                                                                        Butt fist, ze quixxxxxie:

                                                                        AHEM!!! KAK!!!
                                                                        _________________

                                                                        My Country Awake

                                                                        Where the mind is without fear and the head held high;
                                                                        Where knowledge is free;
                                                                        Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
                                                                        Where words come out from the depth of truth;
                                                                        Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
                                                                        Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
                                                                        Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening thought and action;
                                                                        Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
                                                                        • Curiouser and curiouser.

                                                                          Sun, April 12, 2009 - 6:24 PM
                                                                          White Rabbit: Why, Mad Ham! What are you doing out here?
                                                                          Alice: Mad Ham?
                                                                          White Rabbit: Don't just do something, stand there... Uh... no no! Go go! Go get my gloves! I'm late!
                                                                          Alice: But late for what? That's just what I...
                                                                          White Rabbit: My gloves!
                                                                          [Blows trumpet]
                                                                          White Rabbit: At once, do you hear!
                                                                          Alice: Goodness. I suppose I'll be taking orders from Drugs Bunny next.
                                                                          • Re: Curiouser and curiouser.

                                                                            Tue, May 5, 2009 - 4:18 AM
                                                                            Hee! snarfle. kak.

                                                                            I missed zat beef flour.

                                                                            Und now, from mein newt fiend Melissa's profile...ze moist stunning poem:

                                                                            AHEM!!!! Kak.

                                                                            Your love
                                                                            Should never be offered to the mouth of a
                                                                            Stranger,

                                                                            Only to someone
                                                                            Who has the valor and daring
                                                                            To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife

                                                                            Then weave them into a blanket
                                                                            To protect you.

                                                                            ~Hafiz
                              • Re: Plagiarists go to Heaven.

                                Fri, May 8, 2009 - 12:00 AM
                                ~*~ I'm not what I was last year so I haven't any particular shame right now about saying that I'm very weak, in a lot of hurt, psychologically compromised, afraid, angry, full of hate, full of bitterness and not really all that good-humored or inclined to being witty that much these days... ~*~

                                www.hvchronic.com/volume_2/...Indian.jpg
                                • Re: Plagiarists go to Heaven.

                                  Fri, May 8, 2009 - 12:24 AM

                                  there ain't no treasure
                                  at the end of that hairy trail
                                  ronny raygun steels our thoughts
                                  #amazonfail

                                  miss California hates gay porno
                                  another gay republican for sale
                                  no GM crops in Botswana
                                  #amazonfail

                                  ### my ass
                                  like a rusty old nail
                                  joan baez hums in my lap
                                  #amazonfail

                                  my voice is strong
                                  AOL says I have mail
                                  the truth will be herd
                                  #amazonfail
                                  • Colin Bowell Cleanse

                                    Fri, May 8, 2009 - 1:23 AM
                                    Sunset it sounds like your inner child's third-eye's rectal heart chakra may be blocked, resulting in emotional turmoil and dark poetry. Look into a brisk colon cleanse at your local Taco Bell/KFC/HMO location.

                                    Wear goggles and avoid the absent-minded nurse. Although from time to time her inattentions can be welcome--don't ask don't tell.

                                    Mention you're a Republican and get a 16% discount and full credit tax deduction.
                                    • On SiXXX Ethereal Years

                                      Thu, October 1, 2009 - 4:14 PM
                                      SiXXX Years Toadie.
                                      hrrrrrrrrrm.
                                      Good. Fast. Hard.
                                      Wet. Mean. Beautiful.
                                      Ze grand social experiment, full of slaps und tickles.
                                      Giggles und grins.
                                      Fiends und pies.
                                      Fluff und lies.
                                      Kisses und wiggles.
                                      Ze cosmic donkey shrillls on.

                                      Worth vile?
                                      Sieg und Heil?
                                      I donut nose.
                                      Ze pony eez still out.

                                      There eez a certain beauty in ze beast which soothes mein savage hearts.

                                      Mangy Donkeys, tribe.net.

                                      Warts und all.
                                      • Sicks

                                        Fri, October 2, 2009 - 8:16 PM
                                        Happy Anniversary Mad Hammy!
                                        You got a heart as black as Mammy--
                                        A beauty as perfect as Obama's tan--
                                        And a temper as short as Ahmadinejad.

                                        Thank you so much for being my pal
                                        Our hearts will be forever together forever and ever in Hell.

                                        I shall never forget your midnight tomato dance.

                                        AroooAroooAroooooooooo!


  • Unsu...
     

    Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Thu, January 29, 2009 - 5:01 PM
    what is it
    the light
    out
    • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

      Thu, January 29, 2009 - 8:50 PM
      Come on Solo, aryooo otter nose zeez by heart already.

      D'oh!

      ahem. kak!!!!

      Light Out is Apple's implementation of the remote monitoring and management protocol Intelligent Platform Management Interface (IPMI) developed by Intel.

      The addition of Light Out to Xserve provides for the monitoring of over 100 sensors that measure voltage, temperature, fan speeds, etc. Using Server Monitor, one can get a fairly complete picture of the health of an Xserve.

      In addition to monitoring LOM can also be used to control some functions of an Xserve. Xserve can be shutdown or restarted from a remote location via the implementation of LOM in Server Monitor. Even if the Xserve is in an unresponsive state, one should be able to gain access via LOM.

      The LOM process is controlled by a dedicated processor. This processor works independently of the two Xeon processors in the Xserve, leaving them to focus on server tasks.

      The LOM processor is accessed through one or both of the built-in Ethernet ports. Each built-in Ethernet port has two MAC addresses assigned: One is dedicated to the LOM processor, the other is used by Mac OS X Server. This means there are two MAC addresses accessible by Mac OS X Server, and two dedicated to the LOM processor.

      During the setup process, IP addresses are assigned to one and/or both MAC addresses reserved for the LOM processor. These IP addresses used by the server and the IP addresses used by the LOM processor must be different. Additionally, an account is created to access the LOM processor. This account is used to access LOM features and data but is not used in any other part of the system.

      To manage LOM access (IP addresses and account information), use Server Monitor. This is the only location, outside of the setup assistant, where this information can be accessed. The LOM account will not show up in Workgroup Manager, nor will the LOM interface be visible in System Preferences. For more information on managing LOM access, see Server Monitor Help.




      Hee! snarfle. kak.
      • This post was deleted by Madame Gonzaga
        • MADAME GONZAGA

          Sat, January 31, 2009 - 10:04 PM
          A Riddle Song
          by: Walt Whitman

          That which eludes this verse and any verse,
          Unheard by sharpest ear, unform'd in clearest eye or cunningest mind,
          Nor lore nor fame, nor happiness nor wealth,
          And yet the pulse of every heart and life throughout the world
          incessantly,
          Which you and I and all pursuing ever ever miss,
          Open but still a secret, the real of the real, an illusion,
          Costless, vouchsafed to each, yet never man the owner,
          Which poets vainly seek to put in rhyme, historians in prose,
          Which sculptor never chisel'd yet, nor painter painted,
          Which vocalist never sung, nor orator nor actor ever utter'd,
          Invoking here and now I challenge for my song.

          Indifferently, 'mid public, private haunts, in solitude,
          Behind the mountain and the wood,
          Companion of the city's busiest streets, through the assemblage,
          It and its radiations constantly glide.

          In looks of fair unconscious babes,
          Or strangely in the coffin'd dead,
          Or show of breaking dawn or stars by night,
          As some dissolving delicate film of dreams,
          Hiding yet lingering.

          Two little breaths of words comprising it.
          Two words, yet all from first to last comprised in it.

          How ardently for it!
          How many ships have sail'd and sunk for it!
          How many travelers started from their homes and ne'er return'd!
          How much of genius boldly staked and lost for it!
          What countless stores of beauty, love, ventur'd for it!
          How all superbest deeds since Time began are traceable to it--and
          shall be to the end!
          How all heroic martyrdoms to it!
          How, justified by it, the horrors, evils, battles of the earth!
          How the bright fascinating lambent flames of it, in every age and
          land, have drawn men's eyes,
          Rich as a sunset on the Norway coast, the sky, the islands, and the
          cliffs,
          Or midnight's silent glowing northern lights unreachable.

          Haply God's riddle it, so vague and yet so certain,
          The soul for it, and all the visible universe for it,
          And heaven at last for it.

          From "Leaves of Grass", 1900
          • Unsu...
             

            Re: MADAME GONZAGA

            Sun, February 1, 2009 - 3:03 PM
            I have EL34's in a push pull stereo amp, sort of a MacIntosh repop. I'm not a solder slinger by any means.

            here's Ron's cut and paste contribution:

            She walks in beauty, like the night
            Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
            And all that's best of dark and bright
            Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
            Thus mellowed to that tender light
            Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

            One shade the more, one ray the less,
            Had half impaired the nameless grace
            Which waves in every raven tress,
            Or softly lightens o'er her face;
            Where thoughts serenely sweet express
            How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

            And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
            So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
            The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
            But tell of days in goodness spent,
            A mind at peace with all below,
            A heart whose love is innocent!
            • This post was deleted by Madame Gonzaga
            • But tell me wot wot eez ze solder slinger? Ze welder's Ipood slingshot?

              • Unsu...
                 
                someone posted about Zener diodes and the biography of Zener who was a physicist or electrical engineer. so I was saying I do not solder wires together- at least very well.......dudes that solder jokingly call them selves solder slingers because they're usually nerds.












                A CLOSE examination of the validity of the proofs adduced to support any proposition, has ever been allowed to be the only sure way of attaining truth, upon the advantages of which it is unnecessary to descant; our knowledge of the existence of a Deity is a subject of such importance, that it cannot be too minutely investigated; in consequence of this conviction, we proceed briefly and impartially to examine the proofs which have been adduced. It is necessary first to consider the nature of Belief.

                When a proposition is offered to the mind, it perceives the agreement or disagreement of the ideas of which it is composed. A perception of their agreement is termed belief, many obstacles frequently prevent this perception from being immediate, these the mind attempts to remove in order that the perception may be distinct. The mind is active in the investigation, in order to perfect the state of perception which is passive; the investigation being confused with the perception has induced many falsely to imagine that the mind is active in belief, that belief is an act of volition, in consequence of which it may be regulated by the mind; pursuing, continuing this mistake they have attached a degree of criminality to disbelief of which in its nature it is incapable; it is equally so of merit.

                The strength of belief like that of every other passion is in proportion to the degrees of excitement.

                The degrees of excitement are three.

                The senses are the sources of all knowledge to the mind, consequently their evidence claims the strongest assent.

                The decision of the mind founded upon our own experience derived from these sources, claims the next degree.

                The experience of others which addresses itself to the former one, occupies the lowest degree,--

                Consequently no testimony can be admitted which is contrary to reason, reason is founded on the evidence of our senses.

                Every proof may be referred to one of these three divisions; we are naturally led to consider what arguments we receive from each of them to convince us of the existence of a Deity.


                1st. The evidence of the senses.--If the Deity should appear to us, if he should convince our senses of his existence; this revelation would necessarily command belief;--Those to whom the Deity has thus appeared, have the strongest possible conviction of his existence.



                so bring on the wine already!

  • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

    Wed, February 4, 2009 - 9:14 AM
    My dearest Grand Dame
    I miss you more than Spam
    ...and our wee coffe dates
    ...with sweeties on our plates!
    • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

      Wed, February 4, 2009 - 10:31 AM
      The Little Dog's Day
      Rupert Brooke

      All in the town were still asleep,
      When the sun came up with a shout and a leap.
      In the lonely streets unseen by man,
      A little dog danced. And the day began.

      All his life he'd been good, as far as he could,
      And the poor little beast had done all that he should.
      But this morning he swore, by Odin and Thor
      And the Canine Valhalla he'd stand it no more!

      So his prayer he got granted to do just what he wanted,
      Prevented by none, for the space of one day.
      "Jam incipiebo, sedere facebo,"
      In dog-Latin he quoth, "Euge! sophos! hurray!"

      He fought with the he-dogs, and winked at the she-dogs,
      A thing that had never been heard of before.
      "For the stigma of gluttony, I care not a button!" he
      Cried, and ate all he could swallow and more.

      He took sinewy lumps from the shins of old frumps,
      And mangled the errand-boys when he could get 'em.
      He shammed furious rabies, and bit all the babies,
      And followed the cats up the trees, and then ate 'em!"

      They thought 'twas the devil was holding a revel,
      And sent for the parson to drive him away;
      For the town never knew such a hullabaloo
      As that little dog raised till the end of that day.

      When the blood-red sun had gone burning down,
      And the lights were lit in the little town,
      Outside, in the gloom of the twilight grey,
      The little dog died when he'd had his day.

      • Ode to the Madame

        Thu, February 5, 2009 - 1:05 AM
        Hee! snarfle. kak.

        1
        You're my muse
        A ruse
        My spotless mind-quenching
        silly half-lit fuse.

        You read my mind
        You robbed me blind
        Rolled 'em big and fat and crunchy-kind

        Your way helped me realize
        life is sweet
        and
        I donut need mind the grind
        just
        unwind

        Rewind
        no not wind
        wind
        wind
        air
        fly
        sprout
        invisible wings
        doesn't matter if they work
        so long as we tinkle they twinkle...

        ...they do


        2
        I was ready for a new name
        tired of the sad game
        you poofed me Lucy

        in the process granting me a divorce from CrabbyAnn

        Hello Lucy Cannons
        Loose Cannon
        Ann is still in me
        But crabby didn't win me
        c"ann"on rumbles on

        crab bits dead
        red rotted spoiled clotted
        Gone.
        Hail Lucy Cannons
        my secret not-so-secret
        name

        Reborn
        Winter's Corn
        Bitter Wheat
        Swallowed neat.
        Dreading Mourning the Forlorning
        Gone

        You damn little perfectly stinky golden scruffy dog-witch.
        Thank you for everything.

        Bow wow.

        Please. Take a bow-wow. Take two.

        3 (There's always a "but.")

        But there's no way in hell I'm going into that Den of Iniquity.
        Nah.
        Nein!
        I done done enough time in Hell already.
        I'm porked and forked and holding steady.

        Lucy Cannons walks in the light you brung.
        Naked Laughing Non-unstrung

        Come. Sit. Stay.
        Nothing to be done.

        Donut make me dragon you out of there!
        Touche'!

        It's green, here. The forest is broad-minded.
        Even the mushrooms are friendlier. And smarter.
        Look! They make good pillows and lovely soups.
        And they don't have knives hidden in their sleeves.

        Come.
        The stars are waiting for you.
        The moon keeps asking about you.

        And I'm here in the forest shining, too.

        Furever Yours,
        Lucy Cannons
        • Re: Ode to the Butterfly Crab

          Thu, February 5, 2009 - 9:34 AM
          Damn Crabby! That was a good hard read.
          Err, I meant "Lucy." I'd like to take a look at those cannons sometime. My Civil War-era experience taught me how to handle them well.

          I'll climb you all right.

          Now it goes against my nature--I really shouldn't be giving the angels advice but you're on the right track with your assessment of the zombies. Madame is wasting her talented talons therein. Her intentions were the best for the beasts. All one can do is try and in trying, win. But they will keep banging their heads on their dicks until the rest of their brains are gone and even then they'll keep banging. Such is the nature of a demon.

          The one true Satan is pleased with their undead efforts as it's part of what I'm here for. Yet at the same time I'm terribly embarrassed for them in their mundane posts, awkward lies, hypocrisy, grammar issues and spelling atrocities. The supposed lawyer one is the funniest. His works are only funny when he's clueless as to his juvenile errors whilst berating others. Delicious!

          Oh how "we" bellow with laughter when they point their pitchforks at others for much lesser crimes against English.

          Now take this away: You gots to nose when to fold 'em,Hammy sweetheart. Hightail it out of there. Your clever doesn't belong in that hell-hole of hate. Didn't you recently get those wings repaired?




          Gotta go. Sri Lanka is in dire need of my services today.

          • I bloosh.

            Thu, February 5, 2009 - 12:19 PM
            Mangy donkeys fur ze finely-wrought poems. So veddy nicings to peep ze lovely weirdings after ze delightfulling golden slumbers ov lust night und ze heady newts ov zeez mourning.

            I ham ze luxxxy dogging to have such thoughtful fiends. I mist mein Lost Angels und San Francisco treats dearly und veal be levitating toweirds California veddy soonings fur ze veezitationings.

            Merci bearpoops und harpy lunchings!
    • Re: Poems to Madame Gonzaga

      Tue, February 24, 2009 - 10:09 PM
      Oh Maude'Dib!
      Wif zem sweet knockers
      wee shall need to ax fur ze bib!
      When eatings ze spaghetti
      with ze overzealous Yeti
      und axing fur ze dessert
      to be brung
      NOW FAST FIRST!!!

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