Classic poem of the day
My Soule, Lord, quailes to thinke that I should bee
So high related, have such colours faire
Stick in my Hat, from Heaven: yet should see
My Soule thus blotcht: Hells Liveries to beare.
What Thine? New-naturizd? Yet this Relation
Thus barren, though't 's a Priviledg-Foundation?
Shall I thy Vine branch be, yet grapes none beare?
Grafft in thy Olive stand: and fatness lack?
A Shackeroon, a Ragnell, yet an Heire?
Thy spouse, y......
Member poem of the day
Stacked once, twice and thrice. Fooled endlessly, upon the fourth you'll pay a price. Bedbugs, possibly lice. Poof. Be gone, no treatment does suffice. For proof a burden, they look for a reason. To accuse you of every sort of treason. You'll never stand in a trial. They lurk in every courtroom, buzz mosquitoes in Nile. They follow, fast and fabricate. An absolution, never, far too late. Now your gasping for air. Keep teaching, everyone's learning what's fair. Were not useless......