Classic poem of the day
The Doctor in a clean starch'd band,
His Golden Snuff box in his hand,
With care his Di'mond Ring displays
And Artfull shews its various Rays,
While Grave he stalks down — — — — Street
His dearest Betty — — to meet.
Long had he waited for this Hour,
Nor gain'd Admittance to the Bower,
Had jok'd and punn'd, and swore and writ,
Try'd all his Galantry and Wit,
Had told her oft what part he bore
In Oxford's Schemes in......
Member poem of the day
The problem with having an inordinately large menagerie
of elaborate and obfuscatory verbiage is that
the words have to be taken out for an airing every now and again
or they start to howl along with the CDs and chew on the davenport…
Assonance! Cacophony! Ululation! Expletive! Quiet! SHUT UP!
C’mon, Garniture, let go of the ottoman. Defenestration, drop it!
Persiflage! Dyspepsia! Flatulence! Stop that this instant!!
Solecism, Solips......
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