que?

next verse please

Da Do Run Run Run Da Do Run Run

Whilst? Why are you using this language? Do you know no other?

Do you think god will help me find you, so that I might show to you the book of psalms. After we read a little king David I could disenbowel you with a blunt lawn chair. Perhaps duct tape your pen hand to the back of the 'Stryper rules' grey tour bus. Thank you.

no this one will never do. try again please, i shall be sending you entry to dearest bob for judgment so it had better be good.

Venus was that an sorry attempt at a new verse, if so my suspicion that you are a flid and your boyfriend the proud owner of a shining button mushroom are confirmed

You can prefer the language all you want. You can write darling tributes to the ways of old. Many skilled writers have utilized the language or elements of it while expressing modern themes (e.g. Tom Stoppard). But you don't to that. You took a high school English lit class and were mesmerized like many of us when we were in puberty. But unfortunately you are stuck with who you are and the Romantic Age is long gone and your cheap imitations of these dead farts are just that: cheap.

If you would have actually used images to convey this, you might have something resembling a poem. Unfortunately, you did do that. You told us everything and did not show us a thing.

Not a good poem. Tells all, shows nothing.

This is worse than the last one I read of yours. Have you considered a journal?

I met her on the monday morn/Soaked in fear I must forlorn/I want to only sketch her jugs/And Persian roll her knee burnt rugs.

I have licked to stick your mother's ice boxed douche. You were probably hoping that I would eat your steak chilitos instead, but alas. For my next trick I will brick the chili and ride mother unwarrented until Summer's eve sponsors my sleeve.

I met her on the monday morn/Bob was there his anus torn/Speak up Bob our friends are here/L. Ron Hubbard says you're clear.

by jove i think you've got it, thats the one, may all your children have large peni and that includes the girls

You were more relevant alive. Or were you? Nay. Nay. I scraped your poem onto the curb, but still I reek in such a way like mother's broiled cunt filet.

I simply prefer the language...I have yet to find a modern poet who I connect with as well as "old dead farts".

I hadn't gotten around to looking at your work before, Emily...Nicely done!...I'm curious..how long do you usually take to write?

With striving vigor I came inside. But, alas a snore was her reply! How dare your wench be so wide! I rubbered my fist for one last try.

Does this mean that you're turning down my cover story on the life of a poet who knows it, but keeps on slammin because he was ' born to be a poet'? I was thinking for contrast we could also talk about why you're moonlighting as a Carl's jr. fry station operator, and what your first encounter with the back of a horse was like sporting milk crate shoes and a flash light. What do you think? I'm thinking front page. Let me know