Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace
His costly canvas with each flattered face,
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush,
Saw cits grow Centaurs underneath his brush?
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale,
A Maid of Honour to a Mermaid’s tail?
Or low Dubost—as once the world has seen—
Degrade God’s creatures in his graphic spleen?
Not all that forced politeness, which defends
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends.
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems
The book which, sillier than a sick man’s dreams,
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete,
Poetic Nightmares, without head or feet.

  Poets and painters, as all artists know,
May shoot a little with a lengthened bow;
We claim this mutual mercy for our task,
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask;
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams—
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs.

  A laboured, long Exordium, sometimes tends
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends;
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down,
As Pertness passes with a legal gown:
Thus many a Bard describes in pompous strain
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain:
The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls,
King’s Coll-Cam’s stream-stained windows, and old walls:
Or, in adventurous numbers, neatly aims
To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames.

  You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine—
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign;
You plan a vase—it dwindles to a ***;
Then glide down Grub-street—fasting and forgot:
Laughed into Lethe by some quaint Review,
Whose wit is never troublesome till—true.

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire,
Let it at least be simple and entire.

  The greater portion of the rhyming tribe
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe)
Are led astray by some peculiar lure.
I labour to be brief—become obscure;
One falls while following Elegance too fast;
Another soars, inflated with Bombast;
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly,
He spins his subject to Satiety;
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves!

  Unless your care’s exact, your judgment nice,
The flight from Folly leads but into Vice;
None are complete, all wanting in some part,
Like certain tailors, limited in art.
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man
But coats must claim another artisan.
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same
As Vulcan’s feet to bear Apollo’s frame;
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose
Black eyes, black ringlets, but—a bottle nose!

  Dear Authors! suit your topics to your strength,
And ponder well your subject, and its length;
Nor lift your load, before you’re quite aware
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.
But lucid Order, and Wit’s siren voice,
Await the Poet, skilful in his choice;
With native Eloquence he soars along,
Grace in his thoughts, and Music in his song.

  Let Judgment teach him wisely to combine
With future parts the now omitted line:
This shall the Author choose, or that reject,
Precise in style, and cautious to select;
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford
To him who furnishes a wanting word.
Then fear not, if ’tis needful, to produce
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use,
(As Pitt has furnished us a word or two,
Which Lexicographers declined to do;)
So you indeed, with care,—(but be content
To take this license rarely)—may invent.
New words find credit in these latter days,
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase;
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse
To Dryden’s or to Pope’s maturer Muse.
If you can add a little, say why not,
As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott?
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs,
Enriched our Island’s ill-united tongues;
’Tis then—and shall be—lawful to present
Reform in writing, as in Parliament.

  As forests shed their foliage by degrees,
So fade expressions which in season please;
And we and ours, alas! are due to Fate,
And works and words but dwindle to a date.
Though as a Monarch nods, and Commerce calls,
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals;
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drained, sustain
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain,
And rising ports along the busy shore
Protect the vessel from old Ocean’s roar,
All, all, must perish; but, surviving last,
The love of Letters half preserves the past.
True, some decay, yet not a few revive;
Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive,
As Custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway
Our life and language must alike obey.

  The immortal wars which Gods and Angels wage,
Are they not shown in Milton’s sacred page?
His strain will teach what numbers best belong
To themes celestial told in Epic song.

  The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint
The Lover’s anguish, or the Friend’s complaint.
But which deserves the Laurel—Rhyme or Blank?
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank?
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit.

  Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen.
You doubt—see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick’s Dean.
Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side.
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden’s days,
No sing-song Hero rants in modern plays;
Whilst modest Comedy her verse foregoes
For jest and ‘pun’ in very middling prose.
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse,
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse.
But so Thalia pleases to appear,
Poor ******! ****** some twenty times a year!

Whate’er the scene, let this advice have weight:—
Adapt your language to your Hero’s state.
At times Melpomene forgets to groan,
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone;
Nor unregarded will the act pass by
Where angry Townly “lifts his voice on high.”
Again, our Shakespeare limits verse to Kings,
When common prose will serve for common things;
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire,—
To “hollaing Hotspur” and his sceptred sire.

  ’Tis not enough, ye Bards, with all your art,
To polish poems; they must touch the heart:
Where’er the scene be laid, whate’er the song,
Still let it bear the hearer’s soul along;
Command your audience or to smile or weep,
Whiche’er may please you—anything but sleep.
The Poet claims our tears; but, by his leave,
Before I shed them, let me see ‘him’ grieve.

  If banished Romeo feigned nor sigh nor tear,
Lulled by his languor, I could sleep or sneer.
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face,
And men look angry in the proper place.
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly,
And Sentiment prescribes a pensive eye;
For Nature formed at first the inward man,
And actors copy Nature—when they can.
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound,
Raised to the Stars, or levelled with the ground;
And for Expression’s aid, ’tis said, or sung,
She gave our mind’s interpreter—the tongue,
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense
(At least in theatres) with common sense;
O’erwhelm with sound the Boxes, Gallery, Pit,
And raise a laugh with anything—but Wit.

  To skilful writers it will much import,
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or Court;
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear,
To draw a Lying Valet, or a Lear,
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school,
A wandering Peregrine, or plain John Bull;
All persons please when Nature’s voice prevails,
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales.

  Or follow common fame, or forge a plot;
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not!
One precept serves to regulate the scene:
Make it appear as if it might have been.

  If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw,
Present him raving, and above all law:
If female furies in your scheme are planned,
Macbeth’s fierce dame is ready to your hand;
For tears and treachery, for good and evil,
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil!
But if a new design you dare essay,
And freely wander from the beaten way,
True to your characters, till all be past,
Preserve consistency from first to last.

  Tis hard to venture where our betters fail,
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale;
And yet, perchance,’tis wiser to prefer
A hackneyed plot, than choose a new, and err;
Yet copy not too closely, but record,
More justly, thought for thought than word for word;
Nor trace your Prototype through narrow ways,
But only follow where he merits praise.

  For you, young Bard! whom luckless fate may lead
To tremble on the nod of all who read,
Ere your first score of cantos Time unrolls,
Beware—for God’s sake, don’t begin like Bowles!
“Awake a louder and a loftier strain,”—
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain?—
He sinks to Southey’s level in a trice,
Whose Epic Mountains never fail in mice!
Not so of yore awoke your mighty Sire
The tempered warblings of his master-lyre;
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute,
“Of Man’s first disobedience and the fruit”
He speaks, but, as his subject swells along,
Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song.”
Still to the “midst of things” he hastens on,
As if we witnessed all already done;
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene;
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight,
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness—light;
And truth and fiction with such art compounds,
We know not where to fix their several bounds.

  If you would please the Public, deign to hear
What soothes the many-headed monster’s ear:
If your heart triumph when the hands of all
Applaud in thunder at the curtain’s fall,
Deserve those plaudits—study Nature’s page,
And sketch the striking traits of every age;
While varying Man and varying years unfold
Life’s little tale, so oft, so vainly told;
Observe his simple childhood’s dawning days,
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays:
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans,
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens!

  Behold him Freshman! forced no more to groan
O’er Virgil’s devilish verses and his own;
Prayers are too tedious, Lectures too abstruse,
He flies from Tavell’s frown to “Fordham’s Mews;”
(Unlucky Tavell! doomed to daily cares
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,)
Fines, Tutors, tasks, Conventions threat in vain,
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket Plain.
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash,
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash;
Constant to nought—save hazard and a *****,
Yet cursing both—for both have made him sore:
Unread (unless since books beguile disease,
The P——x becomes his passage to Degrees);
Fooled, pillaged, dunned, he wastes his terms away,
And unexpelled, perhaps, retires M.A.;
Master of Arts! as hells and clubs proclaim,
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name!

  Launched into life, extinct his early fire,
He apes the selfish prudence of his Sire;
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank,
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank;
Sits in the Senate; gets a son and heir;
Sends him to Harrow—for himself was there.
Mute, though he votes, unless when called to cheer,
His son’s so sharp—he’ll see the dog a Peer!

  Manhood declines—Age palsies every limb;
He quits the scene—or else the scene quits him;
Scrapes wealth, o’er each departing penny grieves,
And Avarice seizes all Ambition leaves;
Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets,
O’er hoards diminished by young Hopeful’s debts;
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy,
Complete in all life’s lessons—but to die;
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please,
Commending every time, save times like these;
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot,
Expires unwept—is buried—Let him rot!

  But from the Drama let me not digress,
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less.
Though Woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirred,
When what is done is rather seen than heard,
Yet many deeds preserved in History’s page
Are better told than acted on the stage;
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye,
And Horror thus subsides to Sympathy,
True Briton all beside, I here am French—
Bloodshed ’tis surely better to retrench:
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow
In tragic scenes disgusts though but in show;
We hate the carnage while we see the trick,
And find small sympathy in being sick.
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth
Appals an audience with a Monarch’s death;
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear
Young Arthur’s eyes, can ours or Nature bear?
A haltered heroine Johnson sought to slay—
We saved Irene, but half ****** the play,
And (Heaven be praised!) our tolerating times
Stint Metamorphoses to Pantomimes;
And Lewis’ self, with all his sprites, would quake
To change Earl Osmond’s ***** to a snake!
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief,
We loathe the action which exceeds belief:
And yet, God knows! what may not authors do,
Whose Postscripts prate of dyeing “heroines blue”?

  Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can,
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man,
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape.
Of all the monstrous things I’d fain forbid,
I loathe an Opera worse than Dennis did;
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong,
Rage, love, and aught but moralise—in song.
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends,
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends!
Napoleon’s edicts no embargo lay
On ******—spies—singers—wisely shipped away.
Our giant Capital, whose squares are spread
Where rustics earned, and now may beg, their bread,
In all iniquity is grown so nice,
It scorns amusements which are not of price.
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear,
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore,
His anguish doubling by his own “encore;”
Squeezed in “Fop’s Alley,” jostled by the beaux,
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes;
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease,
Till the dropped curtain gives a glad release:
Why this, and more, he suffers—can ye guess?—
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress!

  So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools;
Give us but fiddlers, and they’re sure of fools!
Ere scenes were played by many a reverend clerk,
(What harm, if David danced before the ark?)
In Christmas revels, simple country folks
Were pleased with morrice-mumm’ry and coarse jokes.
Improving years, with things no longer known,
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan,
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low,
’Tis strange Benvolio suffers such a show;
Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives place,
Oaths, boxing, begging—all, save rout and race.

  Farce followed Comedy, and reached her prime,
In ever-laughing Foote’s fantastic time:
Mad wag! who pardoned none, nor spared the best,
And turned some very serious things to jest.
Nor Church nor State escaped his public sneers,
Arms nor the Gown—Priests—Lawyers—Volunteers:
“Alas, poor Yorick!” now for ever mute!
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote.

  We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes
Ape the swoln dialogue of Kings and Queens,
When “Crononhotonthologos must die,”
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty.

  Moschus! with whom once more I hope to sit,
And smile at folly, if we can’t at wit;
Yes, Friend! for thee I’ll quit my cynic cell,
And bear Swift’s motto, “Vive la bagatelle!”
Which charmed our days in each ægean clime,
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme.
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past,
Soothe thy Life’s scenes, nor leave thee in the last;
But find in thine—like pagan Plato’s bed,
Some merry Manuscript of Mimes, when dead.

  Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes,
Where fettered by whig Walpole low she lies;
Corruption foiled her, for she feared her glance;
Decorum left her for an Opera dance!
Yet Chesterfield, whose polished pen inveighs
‘Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our Plays;
Unchecked by Megrims of patrician brains,
And damning Dulness of Lord Chamberlains.
Repeal that act! again let Humour roam
Wild o’er the stage—we’ve time for tears at home;
Let Archer plant the horns on Sullen’s brows,
And Estifania gull her “Copper” spouse;
The moral’s scant—but that may be excused,
Men go not to be lectured, but amused.
He whom our plays dispose to Good or Ill
Must wear a head in want of Willis’ skill;
Aye, but Macheath’s examp

I serve
To my team

I catch
with my face

I pass
To the floor

I score
Into the net

And yet
I frown
By smiling

And win
By losing

A defeat
Can be a good victory
Its all about sportsmanship

do you ever feel so alone
that your usual smile
is replaced by a frown.

when you feel like you lost the crown
and you're being replaced
try to smile and  throw the frown
cheer up!
you will be amazed
of how beautiful  life can be  
you're too young to be sad.

Ha kamatuoran la,  gin-susumhan na gud ako,  
Diri ka pa ba gin-susumhan?  
Hin mga buhat nga balik-balik nala?  
Diri mo ba nahahalata?  
Nga utro-utro nala kita?  
Kun may napakiana ha imo, "Ano kumusta na?"  
An pirmi mo baton: "Adi asya la gihapon, waray pinagkaibahan han kakulop!"  
Ngan kontento ko na hito.

The truth is,  I am sick and tired.
Aren’t you sick and tired?  
Doing the same things over and over again?
Still haven’t noticed it?  
This has been like this again and again.
When somebody asks you, “How is everything with you?”  
Your usual reply is: “Oh nothing’s changed same as yesterday.”
And you’re happy as it is.

Usahay liwat nabati ako ha imo nga utro-utro an reklamo.  
Nga baga hin kadaan ngan guba nga plaka,  
Balik-balik an tukar, masakit ha talinga.  
Reklamo an imo pamahaw,  
Ngan amo la gihapon hasta panihapon.  
Kay kuno makuri.  
Kay kuno waray salapi.  
Kay kuno waray kapas.  
Kun may sweldo daw la an pag-rineklamo,
siguro maiha na unta nga nag-riko.

Sometimes, I will hear you complaining again and again.
Like an old and broken retro vinyl,
playing over and over again, it is hurting my ears.
Complaining is your breakfast,  
and it is your same meal for dinner.
Because it’s hard.  
Because we don’t have money.  
Because I am powerless.
If complaining will provide you a salary,
perhaps by now, you might quite be wealthy.

Nagkatapo kita kanina ha dalan han "Kada Adlaw"  
Asya la gihapon an imo sul-ot nga bado,
ngan an kabutang han imo buhok.  
Asya la gihapon an pagkakurumos han imo nawong,
Ngan an bubble gum nga hasta yana imo la gihap ginsisinamsam.  
Nangurog ako han kaluwad.
Tigda ako nahingasuka ha imo atubangan.  
Pasayloa, pero magpapadayon ka nala ba hito?
Diri ka pa ba ginsusumhan?  
Kay ha kamatuoran la,  Naamin ako Nga Oo.

*I came across you at the street called “Everyday”
You were wearing the same clothes,
And your hair was fixed the same way.
You were having the same wrinkled frown in your face,  
and was chewing the same bubble gum.
I cringe.
I suddenly felt vomiting in front of you.
I’m sorry, but will you keep on doing this?  
Aren't you sick and tired?
Because to be honest with you,  I think I am.

So here I stand, tearing my heart up in my hands.
Arriving home, I was told, you've got to go.
Shocked was I, standing there with cap in hand.
The love of my life, her red hair a glow, her face redder still.
I asked her why, and she told me such a lie.
Appears I've been seeing another, one that I have no recollection of.
No amount of pleading which I undertook helped my cause.
And then, with a parting kiss, she pushed me out the door.

So here I stand, tearing up my heart in my hands.
I can rail at the wind, stand before the sea and spin,
There's one thing I know, and that's that love is finally finished.
My love is torn, and quite forlorn, and it's about to blow away.
I turn, and think of gristly things, my body washing upon the shore.
There are high cliffs here, where I might attempt a lovers leap.
But would she care, would she hold me to her *****.
Would she cry my name, try to pull me back.
Then should our love rekindle in the way it was.
I have some doubt in that moment as I think upon my death.

Suddenly up that very beach, walks a girl.
And she is very fair, her blonde hair twisting in the breeze.
I stand entranced, I stand with silly smile, my blues eyes full of love.
And as she passes, she flirts me cruelly with her skirt..
Her own eyes are taunting me, and so I seek to follow.
The very sands are nearly ended, and already I have another love.
We walk now hand in hand, and in the streets of our own town.
We meet another pretty girl with such red hair, I look and frown.
Somehow I feel I should know her, but there it's gone just like that frown.

I’m running in circles
I’ve got a scattered brain
Does this look normal?
Or have I gone insane?

I tired of the 9-5
Just look in my eyes
This job is draining me
Of my creativity
And happy vibes
I come home and I just wanna die

It doesn’t help that I live
In a lions den
Every morning I wake up
There’s a beautiful silence
And then
Noon comes around here comes
Big mama with a big ole frown
I thought I’d just chill on my day off
Rent is paid but it ain’t enough

I think I need some air
Maybe I should go to my moms house
And see if my family cares
Ha Ha
I needed that laugh
Look at me
I’ve begun to chaff

Anything to just break a smile
People swear I’m crude or ******* vile
Yet we got fools praising a dead man
A woman beater a native to gang land
I’m just trying to get my head straight
Don’t bother me now
No time to contemplate
Tummy’s hungry
And I’ve got an empty plate

Even as the sun with purple-coloured face
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor ‘gins to woo him.

“Thrice fairer than myself,” thus she began
“The fields chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee with herself at strife
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

“Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know.
Here come and sit where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses.

“And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety:
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty.
A summer’s day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.”

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good.
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the ***** courser’s rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blushed and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens—O, how quick is love!
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove.
Backward she pushed him, as she would be ******,
And governed him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips;
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown
And ‘gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips,
And, kissing, speaks with lustful language broken:
“If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open”.

He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks.
He saith she is immodest, blames her miss;
What follows more she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuffed or prey be gone;
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.

Forced to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;
She feedeth on the steam as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dewed with such distilling showers.

Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fastened in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes.
Rain added to a river that is rank
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;
Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,
‘Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale.
Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is bettered with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears
From his soft ***** never to remove
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rained, making her cheeks all wet;
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave
Who, being looked on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer’s heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn.
“O pity,” ‘gan she cry “flint-hearted boy,
’Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?

“I have been wooed as I entreat thee now
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar;
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begged for that which thou unasked shalt have.

“Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His battered shield, his uncontrolled crest,
And for my sake hath learned to sport and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest,
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

“Thus he that overruled I overswayed,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain;
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
O be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mast’ring her that foiled the god of fight.

“Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,
—Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red—
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.
What seest thou in the ground? Hold up thy head;
Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?

“Art thou ashamed to kiss? Then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night.
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:
These blue-veined violets whereon we lean
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

“The tender spring upon thy tempting lip
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted.
Make use of time, let not advantage slip:
Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime
Rot and consume themselves in little time.

“Were I hard-favoured, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O’erworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee;
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

“Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow,
Mine eyes are grey and bright and quick in turning,
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve or seem to melt.

“Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or like a fairy trip upon the green,
Or like a nymph, with long dishevelled hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen.
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

“Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie:
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me.
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou should think it heavy unto thee?

“Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

“Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear;
Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse.
Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty;
Thou wast begot: to get it is thy duty.

“Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so in spite of death thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.”

By this, the lovesick queen began to sweat,
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan, tired in the midday heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them,
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
So he were like him, and by Venus’ side.

And now Adonis, with a lazy sprite,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,
Souring his cheeks, cries “Fie, no more of love!
The sun doth burn my face; I must remove.”

“Ay me,” quoth Venus “young, and so unkind!
What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone!
I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun.
I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.

“The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And lo, I lie between that sun and thee;
The heat I have from thence doth little harm:
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
And were I not immortal, life were done
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

“Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth.
Art thou a woman’s son, and canst not feel
What ’tis to love, how want of love tormenteth?
O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

“What am I that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute.
Give me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again,
And one for int’rest, if thou wilt have twain.

“Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred!
Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,
For men will kiss even by their own direction.”

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong:
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause;
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometime she shakes her head, and then his hand;
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometime her arms infold him like a band;
She would, he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.

“Fondling,” she saith “since I have hemmed thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer:
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale;
Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

“Within this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain:
Then be my deer, since I am such a park;
No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.”

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple.
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple,
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why, there Love lived, and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Opened their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking.
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? What shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing.
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
“Pity!” she cries “Some favour, some remorse!”
Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

But lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by
A breeding jennet, *****, young, and proud,
Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud.
The strong-necked steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;
The iron bit he crusheth ‘tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-pricked; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compassed crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send;
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say ‘Lo, thus my strength is tried,
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair ******* that is standing by.’

What recketh he his rider’s angry stir,
His flattering ‘Holla’ or his ‘Stand, I say’?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur,
For rich caparisons or trappings gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look when a painter would surpass the life
In limning out a well-proportioned steed,
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone.

Round-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks **** and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide;
Look what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometime he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whe’er he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feathered wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind:
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail that, like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent;
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he was enraged,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.

His testy master goeth about to take him,
When, lo, the unbacked *******, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there.
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them.

All swoll’n with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boist’rous and unruly beast;
And now the happy season once more fits
That lovesick Love by pleading may be blest;
For lovers say the heart hath treble wrong
When it is barred the aidance of the tongue.

An oven that is stopped, or river stayed,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage;
So of concealed sorrow may be said.
Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage;
But when the heart’s attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.

He sees her coming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow,
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
For all askance he holds her in his eye.

O what a sight it was wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy!
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy!
But now her cheek was pale, and by-and-by
It flashed forth fire, as lightning from the sky.

Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover down she kneels;
With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels.
His tend’rer cheek receives her soft hand’s print
As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint.

O what a war of looks was then between them,
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing!
His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;
Her eyes wooed still, his eyes disdained the wooing;
And all this dumb-play had his acts made plain
With tears which chorus-like her eyes did rain.

Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lily prisoned in a gaol of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band;
So white a friend engirts so white a foe.
This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Showed like two silver doves that sit a-billing.

Once more the engine of her thoughts began:
“O fairest mover on this mortal round,
Would t

PARTY ZONE WITH DAVE BROWN




DANCERS’   YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE MY ONLY SUNSHINE

YOU MAKE ME HAPPY WHEN SKIES ARE GRAY

I WILL NEVER KNOW DEAR, HOW MUCH I LOVE YA

YOU CAN NEVER TAKE MY SUNSHINE AWAY

OH YEAH DUDES ROCK AND ROLL

GET UP ON THE DANCEFLOOR AND TOUCH YOUR IMMORTAL SOULS

YEAH, MATE YEAH, YOU’LL LIVE FOREVER

IF YOU DON’T GET A FUCKEN WHITE ****** FEATHER

YEAH YOU ARE OUR PARTY DUDE, OUR ONLY PARTY DUDE

YOU MAKE US HAPPY, FOR BEING ALIVE

YOU’LL NEVER KNOW DEAR, HOW MUCH I CAN DRINK BEER

AS I TAKE YOUR COOL KID AWAY

DAVID’  WELCOME TO PARTY ZONE AND ON TODAY’S SHOW WE HAVE BERT ROBERTS

WITH HIS NEW SONG, TITLED YOU AND ME, DREAMING TO BE FREE, IN A CABBAGE PATCH GARDEN

AND NOW HERE IS SUE, BUDDY

SUE’  THANKS AND NOW, WE HAVE GEORGE AND HIS LITTLE JINGLE

GEORGE’  PARTY PARTY PARTY PARTY, I MEAN PARTY

IF YOUR WHOLE WORLD DEPENDED ON IT, YOU ****** PARTY

FIRST YOU GO INTO A NIGHTCLUB AND IF MATES DITCHED YOU, OH YEAH

JUST LOOK AT THEM AS LOSERS ANYWAY

PARTY PARTY PARTY PARTY I MEAN PARTY

PARTY IN EVERY NIGHT AND ****** DAY

YOU WILL NEVER KNOW DEAR, HOW MUCH I ENJOY PARTYING

JUST AS LONG AS YOU CAN BE SAFE, OH ****** YEAH

SUE’   THANKS GEORGE AND HERE IS JUDY

JUDY’   I AM 23 AND I LOVE TO PARTY, DOWN

AND MAKE OLD MISERY GUTSES FROWN

AS THEY ARE TRYING TO BE COOL

YA SEE I HAVE ALL THE FELLAS AROUND ME

I AM HAVING A WOW OF A TIME

AND THEN SOME KIND SIR BOUGHT ME A DRINK

WHICH WAS SODA AND LIME

COME ON OLD MISERY GUTSES , GET OFF YOUR CHAIR

AND NOT JUST TO DO HOUSEWORK, NO MATE NO

YOU HAVE TO GO TO THE CLUB, OH YEAH

AND DRINK YOURSELF SILLY

FOR I AM THE YOUNG DUDE

I WANNA PARTY DOWN

AND MAKE YOU OLD MISERY GUTSES FROWN

AND THAT IS WHAT I DO TEASE THE OLD MISERY GUTS

IN THE OLD MAN SITTING TRYING TO LEFT ALONE

HE SHOULD GET A LIFE, PARTYING, IS THE LAW OF THE LAND

I KNOW BRIAN ALLAN IS YOUR PARTY MAN

AND SO ARE YOU SUE AND DAVID AS WELL

SUE’ THANKS JUDY AND NOW HERE’S PATRICK

PATRICK’  WE’RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT

NO WE’RE AIN’T GOING TO TAKE IT

WE’RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE

YOU SEE I HAVE THE RIGHT TO MUCK AROUND DUDE

I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO COPE WITH YOUR BULLYING DUDE

SAYING, IF YOU DON’T MUCK WITH US, YOU DON’T BELONG

I SAID, I ONLY MUCK WITH REAL PARTY DUDES

AND I GO TO THE CLUB TO EAT A LOT OF FOOD

AND DADDY SAID, YOU ARE RUDE, YA FOOL, YA FOOL

WE’RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT

OUR RULES WE WILL ****** BREAK IT

WE’RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE

SUE’   THANKS PATRICK AND NOW HERE’S BRIAN


BRIAN’   DON’T MESS ME UP, OR I WILL DRAG YOU DOWN

YOU WANT TO EARN MONEY, I WILL TAKE IT FROM YOU

I GOT TO UNDERSTAND THAT POOR PEOPLE ARE PEOPLE TOO

AND AS I GET ON THE DANCEFLOOR, I DO THE BOOGALOO

AND I SAID IT’LL SCATTER MY BRAIN

AND DRIVE MY MIND TOTALLY INSANE

HEAVY METAL MUSIC, IS MY FORTAE, SO STOP TRYING TO BRING ME DOWN

SUE’  THANKS BRIAN, FOR SHOWING US THE POOR MAN’S PARTY, NOW HERE IS MARTIN

MARTIN’   WHAT A NIGHT WE ARE HASVING TONIGHT

***** AND SMOKES, ACTION A PLENTY

I WILL BUY THE WHOLE CLUB A DRINK

AND THAT WILL COST ME 5 INTO 20

MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE

I WANT TO DANCE TO 100 TUNES

I WANT TO DANCE TO 100 MORE

JUST TO BEAT 199 HOMEBODY’S WHO GO TO BED AT 7 PM

THEY SAY I AM LIKE A 2 YEAR OLD, BUT JUST TO THEM THOSE OLD MISERY GUTSES WHO LOVE TO FROWN

SUE’   OK BACK TO DAVID, THANKS MARTIN

DAVID’   HERE IS BERT ROBERTS, WITH HIS NEW SONG

BERT

I AM, ONLY 23, THE DAYS HAVE SEEMED SO LONG CAN’T YA SEE

I AM ENJOYING EACH ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE

YEAH I MUST GET A KICK OUTTA YA

YOU SEE MATE, I AM ONLY 23, I DESERVE ANY CHANCE TO REALLY PARTY

IF YOU CAN’T EXCEPT THAT, GO HOME AND CUDDLE YOUR PILLOW

AND READ YOUR BOOK WIND IN THE WILLOWS

I LOVE PEOPLE WHO DON’T GO TO BED, NO MATTER WHAT THEIR AGES ARE

BECAUSE GOING TO BED EARLY IS FOR WOOSEYS

YEAH ONLY WOOSEYS GO TO BED EARLY DEAR

I WAS MUGGED BY THE WICKED WITCH

CAUSE MY MATES TREATED ME LIKE A SNITCH

I HATED THAT, SO I TOOK MY REVENGE, BUT YEAH, ****** OATHE I AM THE GRINCH

I STOLE CHRISTMAS FROM THE CHRISTIANS, AND GAVE IT TO THE BUDDHISTS

CAUSE, I DID IT ONCE BEFORE, I GET A KICK FROM DOING THIS, WAY TO GO BERT, THEY SAID BACK TO ME

I AM ONLY 23, THE DAYS HAVE SEEMED SO LONG CAN’T YA SEE

I AM ENJOYING EACH ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE

YEAH I MUST GET A KICK OUTTA YA

YA SEE, I HAVE HAD A HARD HARD LIFE, I DESERVE TO PARTY, AND GET INTO STRIFE WITH YOUR WIFE

AND MY MUM AND DAD, WILL SAY, YOU DON’T NEED TO PARTY, WE LIKE YA

I SAID, BUT I WANNA PARTY, I WANNA BE RICH AND FAMOUS, I WANT TO HELP THE HOMELESS, MAN

THAT’LL BE SO RADICAL DUDES, RADICAL RADICAL RADICAL DUDES

IF YA CAN’T EXCEPT ME FAMOUS, KISS MY ***

I AM ONLY 23, THE DAYS HAVE SEEMED SO LONG CAN’T YA SEE

I AM ENJOYING EACH ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE

I MUST GET A KICK OUTTA YA

DAVID, THANKS BERT, AND HERE IS SUE

SUE’  THANKS DAVID, ON MORE JINGLE

BERT’   IF YA HAPPY AND YA KNOW IT, HAVE A PARTY

AND BE A BIT OF A LITTLE SMART ALEK

DON’T FORGET, WE ARE BORN TO PARTY ON AAA YOUTUBE TV

IF YA HAPPY AND YOU KNOW IT HAVE A PARTY

DAVID’ WELL BERT YOUR SONG WAS SO COOL

BERT’  YEAH, MATE, I REALLY LOVE LIFE, ONLY NERDS GO TO BED EARLY

NO MATTER HOW OLD THEY ARE

SUE’   YOU REALLY MEAN THAT

BERT’ YES I DO

DAVID AND SUE TOGETHER

WAY TO GO BERT, SEE YA NEXT TIME, LET’S PARTY DUDES

The ... " GREAT DEBATE " ...
Would Seem To Surround This Thing Called Race ... ?
  
It Makes Some FROWN And Open Their Mouths ...  
About The Ways This Debate Is ... Swept AWAY ..............  
    
By ... " Heads of State " ...  
And Those Who Claim That .......................................  
    
"Racism displays are minimal today !  
So blacks who have a chip, should stop running their lips !"
    
Well Like The Young Orators ...  
Shown In ... " The Great Debators " ...  
    
My View Is Simply This ...  
    
Would They Rather Blacks Shoot ... Clips ... !?!  
Than Use Their Minds To .... " THINK " ...  ???  
    
A Question When Expressed ....  
That SHOULDN'T Be Answered ... YES ... !!!!!  
    
It's CLEAR The Great Debate Will ALWAYS Be This Way ...  
Because A Black Whose Brain ...
Is Used To EDUCATE And ELEVATE Our Strays ...  
  
Is One Who Will Be Labelled As A Person Telling Fables ...  
Whose Thought Waves Are ... UNSTABLE ... !!!!!
    
" A TERRORIST !!! "  
" A COMMUNIST !!! "  
AN UPSTART WHO ...  
SHOULD BE REMOVED !!!
    
... "HIS - Story" ...  
    
KEEPS Giving PROOF ...  
That Blacks Who Choose To RAISE THE ROOF ...  
When They REFUSE To ... " **** and Shoot " ...  
  
But Choose To Use Their Brain Tissue ...  
To ... Air Their Views On Race Issues ...  
Are DEMONISED By Those Who Unite Behind Racist Tribes ... !!!  
    
It's NOT A GAME To Face Race hate ... !!!
    
And Now Is NOT The Great Debate ... ?!?    
The Great Debate Has CLEARLY CHANGED ... !!!  
    
Osama ... Obama ...  
All Kinds of Street Drama ...  
With The Credit Crunch At Number One ... !!!!!!!!!!!!!  
    
Terrorist Crimes At Number Two ...  
And Number Three ... No Energy ... !!!  
    
No Oil ... No Gas .... !!!  
No Cash .... No Bank .... !!!  
    
No Bonuses The Onus is ......  
    
DIVERSIONS Folks And That's NO JOKE ... !!!  
    
Until I Hear This Very Quote ....  
    
"The President has sold his home !" ...
    
I Won't Adhere To Credit Fears ... !!!  
    
The Olympic Fund Has Seen NO CRUNCH ... !?!  
    
Even Though ... Cashflow Is Low ?!?!?  
DOESN'T Quite Add Up Like Government Sums ... !!!  
    
Their Great Debates Don't Seem To Relate ...  
About How They've ... Got EMPTY Plates ... !?!  
    
When I See THEM Starve Instead of Laugh ...  
About Policies That PROVE They're THIEVES ... !!!  
I'll Agree That WE ... Have Got PROBLEMS ... !!!  
    
The Type That Mean No Bonuses ...  
For ... BOARD CHAIRMEN ... !!!!!!  
    
No Whitehouse For The President ... !!!  
No Number 10 For The ... " PM ".... !!!!!  
    
And NO More Wars Where Cash Is Spent ...  
As If There's More For .... KILLING Men ... !!!!!  
    
That's A Great Debate ... I'd  Undertake ... !!!!!    
  
Non Violent Acts Against Government Plans ....  
Like Corporate Expedience ... Against Civil Disobedience ...  
    
Debates Like These Are RARELY Seen ...  
EXCEPT These Days On Movie Screens ...  
    
But Even Then Critics Defend ....  
The Lack of Facts These Movies Have ...  
    
... " So, a movie lied ! " ...  
    
How Many Times Has Hollywood ....  
Made Things Look .... " Good " ....  
Because The Bad Would DISPEL Facts...  
SOCIETIES ... Stick To Like GLUE ... !!!  
To KEEP The FOOLS ... IGNORANT To TRUTH ... !!!!!  
    
When Governments ...  
Become ... UNSTUCK ...  
Who'll Debate Then .... !?!  
    
The ... IGNORANT ... !?!
Who've Been FED LIES Most of Their Lives ... !!!!?!!!!  
    
Now That Will Be A ... WORRYING Time ... !!!!!    
    
The Average Joe Who Is GUNG ** ...  
RUNNING The Show When People BLOW ... !!!!!  
    
It's Happening NOW Some Youth Are WILD ... !!!  
    
Running Around ...  
Toting The Style of ... " Gangsta Clowns " ... !!!  
    
Guns And **'s In Videos ... !!!  
How REAL Are THEY Who Get .... " Airplay " .... !???!  
    
Another Debate That May Bring SHAME ... ?  
To Those With FAME ....
Because Their Fame Has Been Man-Made ... !!!  
    
Like HIS-Story Now Seems To Be ... ?  
The Racist Theme of This Here Piece ...
Is NOT All That It Seems To Be ... !!!  
    
Whether It Be RACE Or The Exchange Rate ...    
Or The Time It Takes For Equality To REIGN ... ?????  
    
It Is CLEAR Those Who ORATE And Try To Educate ...  
Should ALWAYS Have A Say ...  
  
Within ...  
    
...... " The Great Debate " ......

Why do people insist in the use of figurative language
I am not as blue as the sky (simile)
This sadness is not swallowing me whole (hyperbole)
My tears are not carving new paths down the skin covering my cheeks (imagery)
The frown I wear is not eating the happiness off my face (personification)
This feeling is not a storm that won’t subside (metaphor)
I am not softly shaking so someone stops to shush my sobs (alliteration)
You can’t hear the smashing of tears on the table (onomatopoeia)
There is no way to make this pain sound beautiful
I am sad, plain and simple.
Deal with it.