A True Maid

A True Maid

Matthew Prior

No, no; for my virginity,

    When I lose that, says Rose, I’ll die:

Behind the elms, last night, cried Dick,

    Rose, were you not extremely sick?

A Pilot's Dying Request

Here's to me in my sober mood
When I ramble, sit and think
Here's to me in my drunken mood
When I gamble, sin and drink

But when my flying days are over
And from this world I pass
I hope they bury me upside down
So the world can kiss my ass.

Tea For Two (A Tragedy)

Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

by Vachel Lindsay

(In Springfield, Illinois)

It is portentous, and a thing of state

That here at midnight, in our little town

A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,

Near the old court-house pacing up and down.

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards

He lingers where his children used to play,

Or through the market, on the well-worn stones

He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,

A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl

Make him the quaint great figure that men love,

The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.

He is among us:—as in times before!

And we who toss and lie awake for long

Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.

Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?

Too many peasants fight, they know not why,

Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.

He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.

He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now

The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn

Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free;

The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth,

Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,

That all his hours of travail here for men

Seem yet in vain.   And who will bring white peace

That he may sleep upon his hill again?

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Drone

I am a pawn, a usless being
 Controlled by simpletons of greater power
 No will have i,broken and beaten
 A slug to follow the masters trail
 Watch me as i grovel at your feet
 Control my spinless whimpering body
 Defeat my thoughts, my wishs and idea's
 Punish me as i fall out of line  An empty shell, i am nothing
 A slave
 A drone
 Your servant till death
 You have destroyed my creative mind
 to an empty
 Barren
 Wasteland  Forgotten.

If This Be All

If This Be All by Anne Bronte (1820-1849) O GOD! if this indeed be all
That Life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may fall
No freshening dew from Thee;
If with no brighter light than this
The lamp of hope may glow,
And I may only dream of bliss,
And wake to weary woe;
If friendship’s solace must decay,
When other joys are gone,
And love must keep so far away,
While I go wandering on,—
Wandering and toiling without gain,
The slave of others’ will,
With constant care and frequent pain,
Despised, forgotten still;
Grieving to look on vice and sin,
Yet powerless to quell
The silent current from within,
The outward torrent’s swell;
While all the good I would impart,
The feelings I would share,
Are driven backward to my heart,
And turned to wormwood there;
If clouds must ever keep from sight
The glories of the Sun,
And I must suffer Winter’s blight,
Ere Summer is begun:
If Life must be so full of care—
Then call me soon to Thee;
Or give me strength enough to bear
My load of misery!

Current Status

Guys, I will likely be arrested 
I'm sorry, I know we never connected 
And now we'll never have that chance 
Because Erica's a fucking bitch 
But it's really no surprise--her mother's a disgusting witch
So goodbye, and save the last dance.