Sailing up and down the Great Medway,
delivering coal, iron and hops,
with no delay.
Though a bag or two may drop
we'll keep sailing up that Great Medway

The day I shall bore this egg
along my will, beside my Witt,
With dreams to **** or more .

A sway I can't ignore
Born and be reborn like Christ
Around my faith, all that await.

Life is a deadly gift
I am a living rift
With my surplus goals and desire.

Nor those vain glories to acquire,
Zeal above my will, debase me still
Please write down my will.

I had been staring at corporate blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a multitudinous sea horn. Many of my skins partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the sea horns. We would head into the night, deep into oblique dens of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our collective mental cognition.

With cascading light festering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable alleyways of dread, between concrete moulded into the shape of modernity and cables transpiring towards opaque operating systems which imported and exported collected consciousnesses for the trade of gelatinous brain matter, had overcame us.

Sliding into abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge; escaping through pores of sweat coagulation, allowing silk-woven experience to be spun within a lair of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation, inspired by visions of arachnid dread.

Abracadabara,
Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
English Victorian
Poet of note,

Beautiful, lyrical,
Somber with gravitas,
Superpoetical
Poetry wrote.

O Land of warbling Nightingales across
Th'Atlantic pond where golden Daffodils
Dance for the sheepish Clouds that shade the hills
And trees are emerald green with clinging moss,
My Heart is griev'd for thy most grievous Loss
Of Liberty as Tyranny fulfills
His loathsomest Designs and swiftly kills
The Speech that should be free, however gross.
Despair thee not.  The Lord of Love and Might,
Though he doth try thy Patience, He shall yet
Shatter the Teeth of Tyranny and set
The Captives free, the broken Bones aright.
Father will come (have faith, for God is just)
And resurrect the Tongue that tastes the dust.

Saint George is an englishman
Who never came to England
Born in ancient Turkey
Fighting for the Romans

Saint George is an englishman
Who never met a dragon
Willing to be martyred
Killed for saintly passions

Saint George is an englishman
Adopted as our own
Our nation full of mongrels
Imports a classic hero

It was two decades ago today when an actor took his final breath.
When he starred in Doctor Who, he starred in "The Robots of Death".
His name was Russell Hunter and he was born in February of 1925.
Next year would've been his 100th birthday if he had survived.
Hunter starred in nineteen episodes of "The Gaffer" and one episode of "Born and Bred".
People in England were sad twenty years ago today because they learned he was dead.
In 1976, he starred in one episode of "Play From A".
He also starred in "Daddy's Girl" and "Up Pompeii".
Hunter starred in "The Cockleshell Heroes" and one episode of "The Bill".
When it comes to forgetting him, the good people of England never will.

Spoilt from birth,
Pampered and needy,
Being the spare an inherited curse,
Leading to actions often quite seedy.

Great aunt Margaret blazing the trail
Questionable choices aplenty,
Drugs and alcohol steering her sail
A life of regrets, vacuous and empty.

Followed by Andrew possessing of valor
But aimless and vain in every respect,
His choices a mess, cause of great clamor,
So by way of example what to expect?

As to his mother, that heart-shearing tale,
The lovely Diana Princess of Tears,
A tragic figure determined yet frail,
The ultimate victim to her own inner fears.

But a glass half empty is a mindset of sorts,
Blindly ungrateful to privileges bestowed,
Clouding his mind with nothing but torts,
Leading the spiral down a winding dark road.

We the onlookers can only but hope
That time and experience will yet prove the key,
Shielding his fall from that slippery *****,
Grasping the change which for now he can't see.

Morning was sudden-made as an onwardness of hills,
Meant for donning crusade in chainmail glistenings,
The sun visored in misty slats of cold steel,
To glimmer fusty through the godded grove,
A holy sepulchre, earthly-dim to its rafters of oak,
Where the forest-fall of sunlight shed its rosework,
And a red-breasted bird, its song-flight of dappled gleam,
And in the meadow, where colorful whorled the tale of Saladin,
Wayside flowers shook beneath the destriers' cloth caparisons,
A sunny fullness of vales for the crusaders' forest-heartened lungs,
And when this furthering of sights was sunken from,
Still an onwardness of hills to Jaffa like steppingstones.