My blood begins to burn and I’m compelled to spurn the current plans to turn our mascot to a worm.
The members from my firm cannot stay taciturn when our alumni learn that strangers overturned the past we had governed because they’re all stubborn, seeking to be modern and spread, exploit and churn their folly and their germs.
I urge you to discern the consequence you’ll earn unless you can confirm our legacy long-term. We will not adjourn until it’s reaffirmed that history is stern and keeps our old pattern.
If you do not concur and submit to our terms, then surely you will yearn for courtesy interns as funding will downturn and we will watch you squirm like spiders in an urn at the point of no return.
Sincerely, Dr. Kern
monorhyme about the influences of funding on schools' decision making
Their peering eyes sit at the window sill- Looking in they get their thrill- A mother's brimming mess they are still- Trolling HP gives them their fill- Their calling card speaks ill- Of good poets swallowing their bitter pill- Eliot needs to stop this unwanted chill- Of trolls riding the thumbs down, drill- Their actions take a good community through the mill- And ****** if I am going to watch the blades spill-
When many voices speak up it should shake the tree. I write today, inspired by all the ones carrying a torch.
There she would be Under a spruce tree Wild and free Like sand at sea Holding the waves frenzy Filled with so much spree Scenic and capri Down to earth to thee The rain and sun give her glee Moon and stars zzz Her roots are key The door to the tree A foundation to the marque It's branches and leaves agree Knock on wood she be
Applaud the efforts of the Audubon and other conservativation groups that save the forest and trees. This preservation preserves the carbon, which the lack of such, as we're seeing, contributes to climate change. The roots of the tree goes beyond majestic, myopic and metaphors it can make man moralize.
So he threw all his chips on red Thought only of what was in his head Which turned out to be shots of dread For his seeds planted in young women's garden bed Without nary water or breaking bread Or nary knowing the breaches of his and her homestead So he rushed down stranger's alley shed On a runaway, wrongheaded cocky sled Through her banks, he crashed her spread Like a raging, raging thoroughbred Nary was a thought of a rubber glove on his dragonhead For the buried absence of love was in his heart of lead There's his wife at home tucking their kids in their bunkbed While he flirted with the forbidden apple instead It was this night that lives in infamy for others to read this dread For the news broke of a married man impregnating a young coed Accosting such teen to what now proves to be his deathbed Yet if he unwinds his c(l)ock and placed his chips on black he wouldn't have bled Petering out the ills in his marriage he would have been freed Now he shrivels in a shameful battle of what went through his head
I came back to read this. What a maze. I see a little lab mice running through the corriders of temptation, going this way or that, looking for that sugar cube. I see it racing, like its addicted. Then I look back at this poem and see a correlation.
those **** trolls fish for gloom baiting your roses and bloom behind their mask and costume a guise filled with malice loom there spans from the beasts womb a monster preying your doom they take your light to dark displume like fishes facing the jaws of gloom eliot watches schools get entomb like a stepping stone to their fume it takes no rocket scientist's broom to sweep the trolls from the classroom nears the hour of our death, trolls resume
I wrote this poem very impromptu, almost with a giggle like motivation. I was smitten with the attention it's receiving however how I wished it was divided, and a poem like, A Workplace Rendezvous (which I like more than this poem), received a peak (wordplay!)_
another June swept by on see-saws, I cry tears dwell my mind's eye for playgrounds bone dry my clouds puff the sky rings of black sheep sigh one by one nearby no pasture to ply my mind went awry with no wool let fly the beaten path, aye the days, months, years lie lie waiting to die banzai to July another month to pry I sit and watch shy for a piece of pie