Different strokes for different folks, but if I stuttered when I spoke, there is a reason why I wrote, and if you think that I'm a joke, then stroke me, stroke me...

Empirical lyrically virile and viral a warrior reborn like he's gone out of style,

a rage unabated both non-syncopated and internal/external no meter's abated!

You wanted an anthem?

You wanted a cause?

You wanted a figure to even the odds?

You thought I was kidding

but now you're admitting that

I am the chosen whose broken the clause!

Rising in status, my main apparatus, the attitude: platitudes lack the finesse!

I'm searching for perfect not anything less!


I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!

Melding the milieus of millions and millions of masses who clash for the chance for the cash,

when all that was needed was truth to believe in, significance outed, you puppet let's dance!

No bragging, no lagging, and no more sandbagging, the hustle is over, your tussle is weak!

For soon we will savor the end of your flavor, fifteen minutes over, your outlook is bleak.

I'm nobody's pigeon hole, nobody's fool, I've seen quite my share of arrogant tools,

but here are the statements that lead me to greatness:

love me or hate me, go on instigate me, ignore me and gasp when you hear of my rule!

I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!

Now join me in raising a fist to the sky,

and pound upon pressure to powers that lie.

Make diamonds of rhyme-ends and squelter your silence

to pierce through the casket that left us so quiet.

Their reign is run dry, and nobody buys it, let'***** this at home so they cannot supply it.

Prepare the artillery pack in your fire, you're gonna need it , if the bars get any higher,

now hear from the jokee, I dare you provoke me, you still talking ****? well stroke me, stroke me.

I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!

**I'm willing to take it for me and for you, THERE'S NO ******* LIMIT TO WHAT WE CAN DO!

I woke up to a beautiful summer morning. The sun was shining and the rainclouds were far away. I decided I would spend the day on the beach. I always enjoy visiting the beach as it gives me an opportunity to laugh at people's hideous bodies. But where? And then, suddenly, a wonderful idea came to me: why not go to a nudist beach as they always attract the ugliest people with the worst bodies imaginable. And you get to see their naughty bits too, for added humour.

So I rushed to my computer to check the Internet for possibilities and, to my utter amazement, I discovered there was a naturist beach only fifty miles from my beautiful home. As I read the details of the beach and the directions, I had a sense of déja vu; I realised with a frisson of ****** anticipation that it was the very same beach described by Victor the ****** in his wonderful story "Confessions of a ******" which held pride of place on my toilet reading shelf.

I was at the wheel of my incredibly expensive and luxurious car just as soon as my servants had packed my essential requirements: icebox with chilled vintage champagne, lightweight folding gold-plated sun-lounger, vicuna picnic rug and of course my lunch hamper. My chef had rapidly prepared a delicious impromptu luncheon of smoked salmon, steak tartare and a selection of other goodies. I decided to dispense with the services of my chauffeur in the interests of preserving the confidentiality of my destination.

In less than an hour and a half I was there; and the place was exactly as Victor had described it in his immortal novella: a long stretch of mixed sand and pebbles, backed by dunes planted with wild grass, waving romantically in the sea breeze. Idyllic, and crawling with naked perverts as a bonus. I parked my car and transported my equipment to the dunes. I regretted not having brought one of the servants as the hamper and icebox were quite cumbersome and heavy. I was perspiring gently by the time I had unloaded everything and set it all up to my satisfaction.

I took some care in selecting what I felt was the optimum location as I needed to combine the potentially conflicting benefits of wanting to see as many naked people as possible (hopefully including some *** action) with the need for privacy. After all I am famous. I finally chose a spot where there were several ghastly specimens on view for a few laughs and where I could also see a potentially interesting couple who might be exhibitionistic perverts. The man was about 45, shaven-headed, skinny and prematurely wrinkled all over by the sun (yes, I do mean all over) and he had an interesting tattoo on his back: "I love hot ***** ***", which I saw as promising. The woman was plump with pendulous ******* and very prominent buttocks; additionally - how can I put this delicately? - her **** was totally bereft of hair.

Before settling down to my lunch, I felt a little perambulation would not come amiss. So, as bold as brass, off I went for a little **** stroll through the dunes. I will not describe in full detail the visual horrors I encountered: hirsute old men playing aimlessly with wizened, shrunken todgers the size of a thimble; obese old biddies, their rolls of sun-tanned lard hanging round them like rows of bloated udders on a pregnant sow; tattooed bald queens, muscles bulging under lashings of sun-oil, their pierced genitals glinting wickedly in the sunshine; the list was endless. How could such grotesques revel in revealing their corporeal repulsion to the eager world?

And then I saw him! It had to be him! In a dip in the sand dunes lay a middle-aged, paunchy little man, intently watching a couple of old ******* groping each other incompetently. It could only be Victor the One-Legged ******! After all, just how many unipod Peeping Toms are there?

I strolled over to him, coughing discreetly so as to give him a chance to stop his furtive *******. 'Do excuse me for disturbing you,' I said, 'but are you by any chance Victor the famous ****** whose confession I read only last week?'

'Why yes,' he admitted, 'but how on earth did you recognise me?'

I smiled and pointed to the cast-off artificial leg lying next to his beach towel (which, incidentally, was emblazoned by a giant "V", a bit of an identity hint, I felt). He patted his stump ruefully and laughed uproariously so that his average-sized ***** flapped like a pennant in a Force Eight gale. 'I forgot,' he bellowed deliriously.

'I'm just about to have a spot of lunch,' I said. 'My personal Michelin-starred chef, Jean-Claude Anusse, always over-caters ridiculously as he knows I often pick up people on my excursions, so there'll be more than enough. I'm afraid it's nothing special: some smoked salmon and some assorted cold meats, possibly a spot of pâté de foie gras, if I know Jean-Claude. And, naturally, enough champagne to drown a hippo in. Please do say yes, as I have so many questions to ask you about your hobby.'

'That's very kind of you.' mumbled the astonished Peeping Tom, 'I should be very happy to accept your generous offer. Incidentally, to whom have I the honour of speaking?'

I was, frankly, shocked when I realised Victor had not recognised me, and then I remembered I was naked. That explained it. 'Why, I am none other than Edna Sweetlove, poetess to the stars, creator of the Barry Hodges "Memories" poems and biographer to the intrepid and incredible superhero SNOGGO,' I murmured sotto voce, not wishing to be mobbed for my autograph.

'Edna Sweetlove!' he exclaimed, 'you mean THE Edna Sweetlove?' And so saying he glanced down to my genital zone in order to answer the question which so many of my fans have asked over the years. He grinned as he saw the solution to the great mystery.

Victor quickly strapped on his prosthesis and accompanied me (slightly lopsidedly) to my little luncheon site. He helped me unpack our repast and then made himself as comfortable as a naked one legged ****** could reasonably expect to be without a chair.

I must say Chef and his team had excelled himself in the thirty minutes I had given them: smoked salmon roulades, a magnifique plateau de fruits de mer including a three-pound giant lobster, steak tartare, a whole cold pintarde à l'ail, a few dozen sushi rolls, a monster summer pudding, and naturally a Jeraboam of Krug '92. No wonder the hamper had been so ******* heavy. I could see Victor was impressed as I offered him a chilled flute of the most expensive champagne he had ever tasted. 'Better than the pathetic, poverty-stricken muck you were going to gobble, I expect,' I commented in a friendly way.

'Mmmmmmmmm! Absolutely delicious, Edna. I was certainly not expecting this! exclaimed the grateful freak. But before we start on what looks like a truly exquisite nosh-up, I must give you a word of warning.'

'A word of warning? What about, Victor dear?'

'Well, you see, there's no, um....er,' he blushed charmingly.

'No what, Victor? Don't be embarrassed, sweetie. This is Edna you're talking to. Spit it out, baby.'

'Well, um, there's no ******* on the beach, Edna,' explained Victor uncomfortably. 'So, if you need to pump ship, you have to do it native-style "au naturel" in the dunes over there, which can be a bit messy what with all the filth lying about the place in that area, not to mention the lavvo-voyeurs hanging round. Or else you need to swim out a bit and unload into the sea. Judging by what's on offer at your stylish picnic, we'll both be bursting for a good old **** and crap afterwards.'

I shrieked with laughter and explained there was nothing I liked better than a widdle en plein air or a double act dans l'eau. We then tucked into lunch with a vengeance. It was ******* delicious, even though I say so myself. After about fifteen minutes' happy munching, interspersed with witty small talk, Victor suddenly went rigid. 'Look over there!' he hissed and indicated the middle-aged couple by the windbreak.

I looked and I was surprised. The plump woman with the big *** was on her knees in front of her partner, giving him a vigorous *******, and he was lolling back in ecstasy, a broad smile on his face. He seemed to be looking straight at us, almost visibly willing us to watch. He winked repeatedly in a conspiratorial fashion; maybe he had St Vitus’ Dance. Or even worse, he wanted me to get stuck into the action with them.

'They're regulars here, they normally put on quite a good show,' explained Victor excitedly, his hand reaching down automatically to his rapidly stiffening ****.

'Victor!' I admonished him, 'I would prefer it if you didn't **** yourself off during lunch. How about another oyster, you silly old ****?'

'Sorry, Edna, I forgot,' he replied shamefacedly. 'No more oysters thank you; they only make me more randy than I already am. But I'll have another lobster claw if I may. My compliments to your chef.'

So we sipped our champagne and enjoyed our luncheon as we watched the couple give us their little exhibition. After a few minutes *******, the fat lady turned around and leaned forward on her hands and knees and her gnarled bald hubby ******* her doggy fashion from behind with some gusto; this made her beefy buns bounce about like two ferrets fighting in a sack.

I glanced around us and realised that, totally unbeknown to me, the little spectacle had attracted quite an audience. Nine men, young and old, short and tall, fat and skinny, stood staring transfixed by the petite scène erotique before us, all ******* wildly. 'Oi!' I called out. 'Can't you see we're eating?' I admonished them, but to no ******* avail whatsoever.

Victor was visibly torn between his innate desire to watch the copulators and masturbators and with his understandable wish not to offend his lunch companion by manhandling himself unrestrainedly. But, thank God, his natural good manners prevailed and we continued to converse and enjoy our meal in the midst of this Bacchanalian scene of depravity.

I watched dispassionately as the couple came to what sounded like a very satisfactory mutual ******, accompanied by the observers' seminal tributes to their performance. I naturally had filmed the entire scene secretly on my state-of-the-art mobile.

'If you give me your email address, Victor my love, I'll send you a copy of that little show,' I promised. He nodded in gratitude. 'Victor  the ****** at yahoo dot co dot uk,' he mumbled rapidly, 'no dots, Victorthevoyeur is all one word.'

Once we had polished off lunch, I told Victor I would like to interview him with a view to writing a short story about his life's work. He was touchingly flattered and, with a little judicious prompting and probing, told me his saga, which I recorded on my Edna-phone. I naturally don't want to pre-empt my forthcoming mini-biography of Victor, but suffice it to say that Victor told me how and why he became a ******, he regaled me with some of the staggering things he had seen, he gave me a list of some really ace ******* locations, he shared all his best peeping places with me, he gave me the ultimate lowdown on the world of Britain's most celebrated *** snooper and I was touched by his burning honesty. I felt a tear ***** my eye at this tragic tale.

All too soon it was time for us to part. After thanking me profusely and making me promise I would visit him one day so he could repay my generosity, he re-attached his metal leg and limped away towards his beach towel. I knew he was raring to go as the best of the action normally took place in the early evening.

'Farewell, dearest Victor,' I called out as he tripped clumsily over a fellow pervert who had been eavesdropping near us.

Prelude
"Let's go" his soft whisper
the mantra, in his voice she hears

the esoteric voyage through
the cryptic high seas of self,
fathomless, unmapped,
uncharted and reachable
only by the most fearless
ready to unbind and make
the self free for it's adventure,
begins thus for the peaceful pair
complementing the absolute
for a life time, til they reach there
and find themselves one with
                      pure consciousness.

"Let's let's, but only together"
she chants in unison,with him.

1.
Bidding good bye to ego, clad in red and black
a beast, not easy to bring to it's  knees, submit,
the high horse proud,raring to go,having  sharp horns
sticking out, fierce, that goes berserk,on seeing white.
Altogether a curious construct, that dictates terms-
they set about, invoking the blessing of the flame of light.
2
They stood together,  eyes widely shut, bringing
both palms together,in front of their  chests
creating a lotus bud, symbolizing hearts,bowing
each other in "Namaste",-bows the divinity in thyself-
chanting the mantras of peace, thrice, each time, repeatedly.
3
"Lets go back to the begining of every begining.."
the primordial hum, transcending quagmires of time
in the path of our ancestors,who did see the" unseeable",
without eyes, knew the "unknowable",diving in to the
ocean depth of self,going inwards chanting"Neti, Neti"
Not this, Not this, inquiring each till the essence did reveal.
4
They did this, focusing the eye of the mind, on the eye
beyond all, that watches every small thing in universe.
Mind, sharpened like the blade of a sword,efficient to cut
the Gordian knots,of paradox, duality and illusion,
encountering the silence that thickens at last, speaks
the words of wisdom,patient they are, to know the ultimate,
right there at the source of light that is the true essence of all,
5
Celebrate the pure consciousness, that pervades in every thing,
the thought that begets all thoughts,that  moves on to be karma,
that becomes purer, through the cycles of lives, one after another.
"Let's be humble, utmost, sans the ornamental clothes of pride.
May the thought reigning cosmos, the spirit of peace,chanted aloud,
take us to it's sanctum sanctorum and melt us in to it's divine embrace.
Only one there is, all are it's integrals,the divine cosmic hum 'Aum'
that enliven the universe within each cell, remember , is eternal"
                                                #@@#

This is my bargain.
Day for night
and night for day.

There isn't a time where I hadn't wished
that the day would end to make way for night.

Nights offer a bleak sense of comfort.
Almost as if they'd grant a temporary cloak which
you could huddle under and think or...
Overthink in the dark.

You could bargain shamelessly with tears running streams down your face and no one could see.
You could negotiate with reality for the slight perchance that things would turn out alright come daylight.
You could voice out your barter in hushed tones and still be somewhat assured that no one would know.
All of this...
In the cover of night.

Then when sleep eludes, you can't help but beg for day to come.
For with the light comes the day's responsibilities; all eager and raring to go.
Much like runners at the start line, anticipating the shot to be fired at the crack of dawn.
Shot fired and they'd come swooping down on you...
Sweeping you off your feet and carries you off to where you need to be, doing what you're paid to do for the next 8 to 10 hours.

That is your break from the dark.
That is your retreat from all the thinking.
That is your escape from... yourself.

And then...
4 hours into the day, you're wishing for night again.

The untamed urge
To explore the wild
Unleashes the adventurous
Heart that beats faster
Raring to go
Further and beyond
The audacious instincts
Rips across hurdles
To delve deeper
Into the unknown
Where, the treasure is
Pirates can’t challenge
The fearless sword
And face annihilation
The untamed heart
Is the bravest
To explore the wild

You gave me a Friday feeling continuously
Yet I was your Monday morning blues

I incorporated a substantial amount of effort to reveal my love
You thought I was persistent

I arrived on time after anxiously waiting around all morning
You turned up carelessly late to minimise time

We laid upon your bed huddling like innocent penguins to keep warm
I was oblivious to what the upcoming week would bring

I lost the love note which held only a lie
I threw away your lighter as the spark had vanished, just like ours did
Your comforting clothes and plush toy are now doubtlessly collecting dust and cigarette fumes from inside of your closet
You furiously broke the bracelet which I gave to you in pride
You deleted our memories held in pictures
You replaced me in less than 24 hours, so I thought

The truth is, so the fault in our stars quote, I fell in love the way you fall asleep, slowly; and then all at once

I had thought previously that you no longer required my unconditional attention
However I fail to believe this when you are knocking at my door at 3am whilst you're calling out to me in my dreams
I fail to believe this when you start conversations late at night, when thoughts are deep and emotions are raring

Whether we were once magnets facing the attracting way, or you were just a lost soul in need for company I shall never know
But what I do know of, is that today is the day I am fine and content, and one day you will be hurting just like I once was

Me, sometimes too slow
sometimes raring to go.
And you? like a ray of sunshine
that walked into my room,
Oh! my room full of my lonely
tumbled gloom.

Like a star that lost her moon,
like these rains that makes frozen
doors, inside my caged rooms.
I always saw myself, mostly through
the window, of my dark uneven mind.
Many of those characters I made
in my narratives could have been me!
But were never me for a reason.
Oh! did you ever know that
my beautiful silent vamp?

I usually sit down in my room
unsparing my mind, body and soul
sometimes in relentless pain,
but that was a story lost long back.
Now, in rosy curvy overture
you need to wake me up
with a sweet little pen lamp!
Read my vulpine runes
which I pen late nights
and then wake me up
to my own chorus tunes!
Also please use
my mystic crafty hands,
to give fire to your words
everywhere you wish to write!
But then again let me ask
with my mystic cryptic voice
where were you all this while?
Oh! my invisible little pen lamp.

The ladybird laughed her spots off
When the fairy of the party like never before
Approached her – she let out a false cough
Before opening her shiny red door..
“Are you coming “ asked the fairy fiddling with a wing?
“My spots are not on properly today, so I cannot”
Replied the ladybird lying through her back teeth
Why she had said that or why but then she had forgot.
“I have short term memory loss” said the ladybird
“That is it not the spots you see it’s why I cannot come”
The fairy was confused; she’d been up all night
And was not as bright and cheerful as some.
You mean that you don’t want to give it a whirl
Paint the town red and all that jazz, her hair was a mess
She picked up a bone from the floor to make her hair curl
And thought she’d visit the spider to get a new dress.
She called on the spider, her trusty dressmaker
She sat on a load of silk that had been made by the spider
She bounced on it and took a liking to it
And sweet talked the black creepy silk provider.
“When you look at me with those eyes, it sends shivers down my spine”
The spider shook a little with the inevitable quiz
“I need a dress to party through the night and more than that
I want something that stands out makes the wings whizz”.
The spider had no choice but to do as she instructed
He had fallen in love with the blue eyes that slept all day
She had began to spin out the thread like it was as easy as pie
Besides which it is much easier to give in do it to obey.
Once again the fairy of the party like never before
Was ready and raring to dance till the sun shone again
She frog marched her clan to the bright lights
The night was going to be anything but mundane.

Ominous  voices spoke within the haze of smoke,
in the rambunctious spirit of adolescence
one would hardly listen to those rants.

I remember two things, I was a white horse
raring to go to the very end, of the track, where a mountain rose,
its peak hidden in the cloudy whiteness, beyond that lies the cave of  secrets;
the second certain thing, in that dream was my age, just 18, highly precarious,
none can  now say this white horse, would turn dark at the end of the race.
(not, even if one becomes 18, all over again,would be sure)

The girl, wearing a flame red streaming cape, riding on my back
said: "What a night we had"! Yes she did amaze me all through the night,
and look now, I am happily  under her spell, she has the magic word
to make me excel, if by chance failed, I'll be her ****

They'll turn me in to a mare by their spell, and sell in the village fair,
They'll regale themselves with this sweet imagination: if he wins he is our horse for ever,
or else, the money he fetches, would take us forward for a while,
The horse in his delirious fit thinks:" My love, we'll have many more nights
like we had, just you wait".
                                                                              The crowd gets impatient,
they just want the race, see the ******* the horse, pass glamorously before their eyes
see someone's win, or  some one soon should bite the  dust.
**Be ready in your blood thirsty self, to witness oh! heartless crowd,
here, I am treading the blade of the sharp sword, dripping blood from my heart.

On the deserted riverbank
lay the painted boat
his youth glistening in the half baked noon,
the river wide beckoned him to taste her depth,
skim her stretch and see her other side.
The boat was raring to go
riding the wide river's tide
masts high up full steam
to wherever she would carry him.
At each call of the river
his oars rended a soulful cry,
the river echoed him back
holding into her his futile longing
her waves wreathing in agony on the shore
if that could fetch him to her embrace.

The half baked noon
dull empty unchanging
knew
there wasn't a way he could ever launch into her....
the painted boat on the painted river!

In an evening,
Washed with love,
Writing,
Tranquility and thunder in one afternoon,
Like fresh laundry,
Clean,
Newly refreshed,
Invigorated
New life's lease!
Raring and excitable,
As wild child plays,
Wallowing,
In styles novel!
Provoked into action,
While arrows fly,
Origami swans created,
Folded wings tinged with pastel tints,
Dripped from loves pipette!
A miracle constructed,
From twisted paper,
Origami swan can't fly,
Unless caught on gentle breeze,
Gentle breeze,
Brings allergens sneeze!
Captured in sunlight's mesh,
Studied through patterns from a picture book,
Designed with child in mind!
COPYRIGHT LIVVI KENT 27/05/2013,

A feeling of fear engulfs the world, as the clash of the titans builds.
Who knows what's going on, while these supermen clash.
What is to be done?
The parental solution of nations as punishment for stroppy children,is taking all their toys away, with-holding their allowance.
Vlad, turned on his heels, as he poked out his tongue, at the powers that be.
Cameron,  acted like his usual snotty ****, hiding under posh boys hat,oh my God what a prat.
Obama thinks he's got it right, ready up and raring for a fight, a stallion whose got the bit between his teeth.
A situation of ridicule, based upon controlling fools.
What fear hides behind the spoken word on the world of  dashing Crimea?
(C) LIVVI

2nd of Jan all revved up
Another cup of tea in another tea cup
Back to work sharp and raring to go
Cup of tea gone, the start is slow

Happy New Year you say with glee
The guy over there is staring at me
I pick up the pace and give it some wellie
Oh crap I think he's staring at my belly

Peanuts, crisp, Toblerone and cake
Turkey, trifle all on your plate
Just eat and sit until you're ill
As you tell yourself just sit and chill

Must get fit and lose some weight
Tuesday arrives you come home late
Chicken Pie, peas and a pint of beer
Same old same old Happy New Year!

The trees in the winter months
Branches laden with sparkling snow
Like little diamonds reflecting in the sun
Dressed but nowhere to go.

Berries dappled on bushes on hedgerows
Tucked safely where the wind doesn’t blow
Like rubies and garnets on the bushes fingers
Dressed but nowhere to go.

Fairies dancing in the midnight moonlight
Providing a spectacular floor show.
Lacy cobwebs for table cloths and spun specially
Dressed but nowhere to go.

The winter is almost upon us
Spices enrich Christmas bread dough
Icing drips neatly onto the floor in puddles
It is dressed but nowhere to go.

I however have my glad rags on,
My painted face, rich ruby lips and so
With my sequins, high heeled shoes
I am painting the town red and raring to go.

I remember passion fondly,
sepia-toned snapshots
of vaguely familiar faces,
preposterous poses
grinning at memory's camera.
Such children we were,
bloated with self-importance
raring to be loosed
upon an unsuspecting world
     (they'll never know what hit'em).
Battered by time,
small success and major failures,
a one-sided smile
crawls up my face today
as I pray
for a fragment of that fire,
a torch
to light the rest of my days.

The trees in the winter months
Branches laden with sparkling snow
Like little diamonds reflecting in the sun
Dressed but nowhere to go.

Berries dappled on bushes on hedgerows
Tucked safely where the wind doesn’t blow
Like rubies and garnets on the bushes fingers
Dressed but nowhere to go.

Fairies dancing in the midnight moonlight
Providing a spectacular floor show.
Lacy cobwebs for table cloths and spun specially
Dressed but nowhere to go.

The winter is almost upon us
Spices enrich Christmas bread dough
Icing drips neatly onto the floor in puddles
It is dressed but nowhere to go.

I however have my glad rags on,
My painted face, rich ruby lips and so
With my sequins, high heeled shoes
I am painting the town red and raring to go.

in january he was gentle.
rested a soft hand on my neck -
it felt strange
but he said it was natural
and so i believed him.

and now in june it's a chokehold
a strange escalation that took months to notice
my body slowly being deprived of oxygen
turning blue
and lifeless
his strong fingers
leaving bruises on my pale skin
veins stand out
as i
scream on the couch
my back arched
like electrodes placed on my temples
shocking me back to life
i feel that strange,
wild,
raring,
open pain
course through me
for the first time in a year

The tree stood there...
Looking back at me,
As if raring to tell me something...
Probably of the days of yore now past...
Or of the many a moon that went by too fast...
It looked intently yet with a sort of detachment as would leave you astonished,
A non-chalance which spoke volumes on composure...
It made as if to make known the countless secrets it harboured in its twisted branches...
Of the many souls that saw it as their place of peace...
In a bid to try and hear the unspoken, it spoke tomes without having even spoken.
So quietly, it swayed to and fro.
Silently, it gazed...
Affixed to the hard, 'impalpable' earth...
A symbol of virtue...
The point where prudence met justice and fortitude its play-fellow temperance...
It stood on high with a sort of humble pride...
Slowly but steadily moving to the tune of the soft wind...
Magnificence incarnate...
It billowed ever so gently as if in unity with the elements all about it:
The sun's gentle fire from above,
The air all about,
The firm and unyielding earth beneath
And the water from down below
The point where all came and united in such harmony as would leave any who cared to acknowledge in awesome wonder...
And still as I went on my way, it still stood