For Jane

   




 225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.

rudyard kipling

IF

Great poem.

Harp Song of the Dane Women
By Rudyard Kipling
“
What is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?


She has no house to lay a guest in—
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.


She has no strong white arms to fold you,
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you—
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.


Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken—


Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters.
You steal away to the lapping waters,
And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.


You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables,
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables—
To pitch her sides and go over her cables.


Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow,
And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow,
Is all we have left through the months to follow.


Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker ?

My mom used to quote this one to me when I was little. She learned it in grade school in the 30's. Reminds me of Fall, my favorite time of year, and of simpler and better times...

---

 
 

High Flight Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious, burning blue, I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew - And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high untresspassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee No 412 squadron, RCAF Killed 11 December 1941

---

 

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

- e e cummings

Invictus    

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

The Roman Centurion's Song


LEGATE, I had the news last night - my cohort ordered home
By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.
I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!

I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall,
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.
Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near
That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.

Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done;
Here where my dearest dead are laid - my wife - my wife and son;
Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love,
Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?

For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields suffice.
What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies,
Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze -
The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days?

You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine an olive lean
Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean
To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on,
Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!

You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines
Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines.
You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but -will you e'er forget
The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?

Let me work here for Britain's sake - at any task you will -
A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.
Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep,
Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.

Legate, I come to you in tears - My cohort ordered home!
I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind - the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!

Rudyard Kipling

"The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot.

I used to have it memorized, believe it or not.

(I also used to have all the Czars of Russia memorized, in order).

rub a dub dub
thanks for the grub

YEA GOD

Fleas, by Ogden Nash


Adam
Had 'em.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I––
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost, of course.

Willie built a guillotine
And tried it out on sister Jean
Said mother as she got out the mop
I wish these messy games would stop

This one, or The Raven,  by Edgar Allen Poe.

Always liked that one, not sure why.

The Raven is awesome - one of the greatest poems of the English language IMHO.

Hurt Hawks
Robinson Jeffers

I
The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,

No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.

He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.

He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,

The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.

You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.

II
I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk;
but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.

We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance.

I gave him the lead gift in the twilight.
What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.


http://www.thebeckoning.com/poetry/misc/rjeffers1.html

That's what I came in here to say.

Pioneers!
 O Pioneers! by  Walt Whitman





Come my tan-faced
 children,



 Follow well in order, get your weapons ready,



 Have you your pistols? have you your sharp-edged axes?



 Pioneers! O pioneers!
































































































































 

roses are red

violets are blue

fuck obama

and all democrats too

Kipling––If
Henley––Invictus

Not only the best of poems but two of the most important written documents in the English language.

Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

If you can't be good.... Be good at it.

For me a tos up:

I was a shepherd to fools
Causelessy bold or afraid
who wouldn't abide by my rules
Yet they lived for I stayed

Convoy escorts, epitaphs of the war by Kipling

OR


BY the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.


The Concord Hymn by Ralph Waldo Emerson

That is mine as well.





I'll have to go with:





Do not go gentle into that good night    





by Dylan Thomas





Do not go gentle into that good night,


Old age should burn and rave at close of day;


Rage, rage against the dying of the light.





Though wise men at their end know dark is right,


Because their words had forked no lightning they


Do not go gentle into that good night.





Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright


Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,


Rage, rage against the dying of the light.





Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,


And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,


Do not go gentle into that good night.





Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight


Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,


Rage, rage against the dying of the light.





And you, my father, there on the sad height,


Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.


Do not go gentle into that good night.


Rage, rage against the dying of the light.




 
 

e e cummings wrote shit.
 

I have "INVI CTUS" tattooed on my knuckles.   Hardest poem ever.

Diggity diggity diggity.

Not a poem but I enjoy this all the same...

Death, Be Not Proud is one of my favorites.  I wrote a paper on it for an English class in college.  I also think that The Raven has some of the most beautiful usage of the language I've ever read.  My favorite is the line, "The silken, sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me."  It has such beautiful flow.

Damnit, you beat me.



 

Hickery dickery dock
You just bit off my cock!
You crazy bitch!
You stupid witch!
Bring back my severed cock!

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
"You can never — "
"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.

-Stephen Crane

The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert Service

   There are strange things done in the midnight sun
       By the men who moil for gold;
   The Arctic trails have their secret tales
       That would make your blood run cold;
   The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
       But the queerest they ever did see
   Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
       I cremated Sam McGee.

   Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
   Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
   He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
   Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

   On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
   Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
   If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
   It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

   And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
   And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
   He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
   And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

   Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
   "It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
   Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
   So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

   A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
   And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
   He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
   And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

   There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
   With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
   It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
   But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last remains."

   Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
   In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
   In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
   Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — Oh God! how I loathed the thing.

   And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
   And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
   The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
   And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

   Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
   It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
   And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
   Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

   Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
   Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
   The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you seldom see;
   And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

   Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
   And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
   It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
   And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

   I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
   But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
   I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
   I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

   And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
   And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that door.
   It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm —
   Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

   There are strange things done in the midnight sun
       By the men who moil for gold;
   The Arctic trails have their secret tales
       That would make your blood run cold;
   The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
       But the queerest they ever did see
   Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
       I cremated Sam McGee.

Tommy, by Rudyard Kipling:

Breathe deep the gathering gloom.
watch lights fade from every room.
Bedsitter people sit back and lament.
Another days useless energies spent.
Empassioned lovers wrestle as one.
Lonely man cries for love and has none.
New mother picks up and suckles her son.
Senior citizens wish they were young.
Cold hearted orb that rules the night.
Removes the color from our sight.
Red is grey and yellow white.
But we decide which is right.
And which is an illusion.

This one tears me up whenever I read it.

The depths of winter longing are ice within my heart
The shards of broken covenants lie sharp against my soul
The wraiths of long-lost ecstasy still keep us two apart
The sullen winds of bitterness still keen from turn to pole.

The scars and twisted tendons, the stumps of struck-off limbs,
The aching pit of hunger and throb of unset bone,
My sanded burning eyeballs, as light within them dims,
Add nothing to the torment of lying here alone...

The shimmering flames of fever trace out your blessed face
My broken eardrums echo yet your voice inside my head
I do not fear the darkness that comes to me apace
I only dread the loss of you that comes when I am dead.

                                                           
                                                               
                                                                   The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding––

Riding––riding––

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.



He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;

He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.

They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!

And he rode with a jeweled twinkle––

His rapier hilt a-twinkle––

His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.



Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter––

Bess, the landlord's daughter––

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.



Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim, the ostler listened––his face was white and peaked––

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

But he loved the landlord's daughter––

The landlord's black-eyed daughter;

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:



"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.

Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."



He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand

As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,

Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight

(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),

And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.



He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,

When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,

The redcoat troops came marching––

Marching––marching––

King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.



They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,

But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;

There was Death at every window,

And Hell at one dark window,

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.



They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!

They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!

"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,

"Look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."



She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, on the stroke of midnight,

Cold on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!



The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;

Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.

She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,

For the road lay bare in the moonlight,

Blank and bare in the moonlight,

And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.



Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding––

Riding––riding––

The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.



Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight––

Her musket shattered the moonlight––

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him––with her death.



He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood

Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!

Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear

How Bess, the landlord's daughter,

The landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.



Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat

When they shot him down in the highway,

Down like a dog in the highway,

And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.



And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,

The highwayman comes riding––

Riding––riding––

The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.



Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter––

Bess, the landlord's daughter––

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe

Well Im gonna cheat and post 2!1!!!

Hate generally stems from an inability to comprehend. It can also be from a lack of understanding...



But I'm sure you understood the first sentence and were able to comprehend the second.



Perhaps some other stuff like math or science is more your forte (Pronounced just like Glock .40). So here's a bit of both in word format:



Poetry attracts girls... Girls are good... You know like how magnets and shit work...



Girls like poetry... Poetry is good. This is almost like neutrons and electrons...



Girls and poetry = good... Following me??? You know like 2+2= something or other...



Good... Progress man, we're making it.



Now for the thinking part:



Basements attract mold.



You may just want to stay away from poetry man. Girls don't like mold...

Wait, what?

Why do you have moldy girls in your basement?

Not a poem, but something from one of my favorite poets, il Suomo Poeta (The Supreme Poet), Dante Alighieri:

"The hottest places in hell are reserved for those, who in time of great moral crisis, maintain their neutralityl"

I'm enjoying this thread, keep it up. Kipling is one of my favorites.

BNR you failed.



RIF..........



But I like your style...



Edited for clarity....