"brit" poems
our coolest babysitter lit a long joint and drove us to church
in her well worn '87 oldsmobile with chipped gold paint
a drooping side mirror and a tape player
that smelled like stale london gin mothballs
and a sunset butterfly heart at the same time
it had a deep ocean green calcite mandala
dancing from the windshield mirror
and a steal-your-face tattooed on the back glass
she used to blare brit-pop trying
to make the speakers bleed
that day when they finally oozed she swerved us
left through the other lane and sunday morning fog
to cut a jagged path through thick woods and into an oak tree
with a soundtrack of slow motion oasis and screeching tires
i clammored to the backseat to block the window
glass from your beautiful angelic blonde head as
dew sprayed into the vacancy from the ditch and
when i pulled the seatbelt spiderweb out of your mouth
and lifted you out of the car i was standing
barefoot in a cluster of bright red sumac next to
an ant hill pile of twisted steaming metal
and you were dripping blood from your eye and knees
asking me if we'd be late for sunday school
but you were awake and trying to smile so
we followed the powerlines back to the main road
holding hands dizzy and sweating
worried no one would ever find us
limping while the springtime songbirds
held their tongues for us but
when the hot ringing in my ears finally stopped
the sirens grew loud and close and the
birds too began their wet lipped eulogy
sometimes i think about
missing church that day
when the weather's bad
on nights like last night
sometimes i remember
our babysitter when
the fog rolls in over
the road in the morning
i wonder if she still
gets high on the
good stuff while
she drives or
if she's just
a treehugger
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
With a Jewish religion and a German Queen,
Who has a clue where the Brits have been?
Mum’s clan were Huguenots,
Dad’s maybe Welsh.
Lots of Africans in our football teams.
Keep out those immigrants many do say,
Even those whose parents came from Bombay.
We’ve lots of patriots from Pakistan:
The younger generation, Brits to a man.
But some are Radicals I hear you say,
We should be sending them on their way,
Back to Asia where they belong,
To the tunes of a UKIP song.
So what is “British” we must ask,
For this is not an easy task.
Justice and Democracy I hear you shout,
Tiny islands with some clout.
Shakespeare, Beatles, Rugby Lions,
Churchill clapping foes in irons.
Let’s be glad that we are free
And settle down to a cuppa tea.
Paul Butters
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 5:47 AM UTC
The Scots are a friendly old folk
With Whiskey they share till you soak
But call them a Brit
And they'll **** up your ****
Heritage to them ain't a joke!
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
So glad I wasn’t born a Daesh Child
Or Indian lower caste.
Or in some ghetto in Brazil
Or wherever.
The hands of Fate were kind to me,
Being born a Brit.
An easy life, compared to many men.
To think I could have been born anywhere:
A black, white or yellow,
Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindu….
Even a Royal!
I’m glad indeed at what I am,
But should my birth determine all?
I must have Choices
Little though they be.
I choose Agnostic though I’m C of E,
And Humanist is my Way.
My Love of Nature is a solid choice:
Compassionate Kindness being my Creed.
My race and gender (and being Straight)
Are set in stone
Popular or not.
But otherwise I’m just very glad
To be Free.
Paul Butters
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 6:05 AM UTC
Referendum Rap
Left right Left right Wrong Right Wrong Right
Far right Outta sight Dark Light Dark Light
Left right Left right
Do I leave, Do I stay Do I play or run away
Which way today
Far right Outta sight Do I stay, do I fight
Who’s my brother, who’s my mother
Who’s my wife, and who’s my lover
It’s me, or them, It’s now, or then
May be community, Or a lion’s den
Who’s my brother, who’s my mother
Who’s my wife, and who’s my lover
Do I tango do I talk, Do I make or break a wall
If I fly will I fall
Left right Left right Wrong Right Wrong Right
Far right Outta sight Dark Light Dark Light
Left right Left right
Who’s my brother, who’s my mother
Who’s my wife, and who’s my lover
Now we come to the crux of it
Be a Bodhisattva Brit
Only self, cherishin’ spin
Explains the state we’re in
Our imperialistic past
Built the wealth of our state
Now we’d better give some back
Before it’s way too late
Sean Hunt June 7 2016
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
Falling in love with sarcasm wearing a onesie
From across the pond, I see your smile
Shining with a sparkling nose ring right above it
The sun hitting you just right
One day I’ll see you
You’ll see me
And we’ll grow old giggling about “poot” and “vee-tuh-min”
To everyone, you’re just another brit
To me, you’re royal family
Princess Brit
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 2:18 PM UTC
Where were you
when they called me ‘keling’ and ‘pariah’?
Where were you
when my grandparents arrived in a boat?
Where were you
when my kind slogged the railway tracks and roads?
Where were you
when they called me a snake and a rubber tree loafer?
Where were you
when they tore down my temples ‘coz there were one too many?
Where were you
when higher education was denied ‘coz some quota had been filled?
Where were you
when my kind were killed in prisons?
I didn’t know it was a crime to look like a black rapper with earrings;
Where were you
when my grandmother wept the first time she cast a vote?
Where were you
when my grandfather laughed, shaking hands with the Tun seated by the Brit?
Where were you
when I proudly held the nation’s flag up the Everest and in a squash court?
Where were you
when I wept at the sound of ‘Negaraku’ heard thru’ muffled speakers and a loud silence?
One Malaysia sorry *** was once believed but now delusional
When my kin are likened to toilet paper
Used when needed and then discarded!
@ shaqila 21/1/2013
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
I don’t believe in growing up
I’m still a schoolboy pratt
Whenever I see bra-straps
They just fidget to be snapped.
*
Sunburnt brit:
It’s the new colour
In the Dulux range this summer.
*
If dogs had people’s thumbs
And people had dogs’ tongues
Would they be texting messages
While we were sniffing bums?
*
The cutest thing is when confused
Mummy’s little soldier
Waves the skirt of truce.
*
I guess there was a last time
I sat on daddy’s head
And grabbed on tight to his greying hair
As he led me by the legs
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 5:08 AM UTC
Ugly negroid four eyed shaqila IS the original poem thief.
You think it's safe to post your poems on a site with no one in charge?
Think again you idiots. No site moderators and no administrators.
A Brit camping on twitter and ain't been on this site in months.
Check this link to see how many poems been removed. That would be ZERO!
All poems are still there and good luck with thinking site's deleting any poems.
http://hellopoetry.com/search/?q=FUCK+YOU+POETRY+COMPUTER
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:00 AM UTC
It’s boxing day (the Brit name for the day after Christmas) and Pamela, Lisa’s grandmother is visiting our little pandemic ark. Pamela’s a Cowboys fan so we’re watching them slaughter Washington - between commercials - but now a Tesla commercial is running. “Those electric cars,” Pamala says dubiously, “seem problematic.”
“You’ve heard of global warming, haven’t you, Pamala?” Leeza says. Leeza addresses everyone (even her grandmother) as if they were her age (12). It’s both seductive and lazy. “This whole system,” she raises her arms to include the apartment, the city and America, “will collapse - we’re DOOOOMED,” she concludes, as if speechifying to an eager crowd.
“Everyone’s heard of climate change,” Pamela says, sipping her eggnog. Pamela is as well informed as any of us and seems rather envious of the future, even the coming awfulness.
“Leeza’s her own theatre,” Her mom says, grimacing indulgently.
Leeza’s full attention was now on the pastry tray - having spotted two small eclairs under the bear claws - she'd lost interest in the conversation and saving the planet.
“The system won’t collapse,” Will says. Will received his early acceptance letter from Harvard the other day and now he knows everything. “We’ll lose Florida, South Carolina and New York,” he pronounces calmly, “so there’ll be some.. migrations.”
“Thank you, professor,” Lisa says, rolling her eyes as if to say ”Harvard people.”
“I think the Covid might get us all - before climate change,” I say, in the spirit of the holiday.
“Well,” Will says, grinning, “that’s what ALL the people at inferior colleges think.”
Leeza, passing by my easychair, curls into my lap like a cat, gently petting my hair. “Don’t be mean to MY friend,” she says, purringly - I was suddenly her possession. Lisa comes out of her chair, a sly smile on her face, to lay crosswise atop Leeza (and me).
“Ugg,” I managed to say, squirming to get comfortable, then “Akkkk.”
Lisa says, “Leave my poor roomie alone!” and starts baby-kissing my head.”
Will starts in our direction like HE’S going to pile on. “Egggg! I shrek, “HELP!”
Pamela whoops with glee as Dallas scores another touchdown.
“Like beating a dead dog with a stick,” she says.
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 10:10 AM UTC
A Czech? Not to worry
Yet Murray groaned a lot
and went from Brit to Scot
in a frightful hurry
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 2:24 PM UTC
Democracy, freedom, independence and joy
have all done a full circle and stopped tonight
Now to pack that well worn bag one last time
and let go
of all the hopes and dreams
of a little house with a blue door
with icicles hanging off the roof
surrounded by daffodils as the snow melts
predicting long summer evenings in the sun
sipping ice cold beer with those who are dear.
All the friends made memeories gained
will be left behind at the start of this trip
with a one way ticket to which used to be home.
Social norm is a miserable concept
and in this fickle thing called life
the only thing that doesn't change
is apparently my race.
Because God decided to play a cruel trick
and made me brown outside and inside a Brit.
Just to thicken the plot
having been raised with morals
here I am declining
generously convenient marriage proposals
deluded by romance and sacred notions of matrimony
just to get a visa was never going to cut it.
And dear Craig from last night,
you tasted and smelt of honesty and liberation
and your embrace, like a lie in on a lazy Sunday morning
was warm, cosy and comforting
your eyes mirroring a painful understanding
of heartache and no hope of tomorrow
yet yearning to stay in each others arms
as we did on that tiny dark dance floor
even long after the music had ended.
I would have given you my number
if time hadn't failed me
if fate hadn't cheated me.
I died a little more inside watching you leave
even though we had just met
and it was one night
with alcohol running through my veins
as I drank to forget
I remember
that kiss good bye.
You lingered and I can't stop thinking
what if what if what if
what if I had time
could we have been something more
guess we will never know
instead I've got to go
leaving everything behind
except for my well worn suit case
full of crushed dreams and a broken heart
dampen and heavy with tears and fears
time to leave where I belong
and return to where I was mistakenly born.
Time to face the beginning
of the end...
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
I
I'm trying t' find my ID.
I think I'm missing it.
This thing,
This bright, shining light,
It's hiding in my blindsight.
I'm swimming in mist,
Trying t' find ... "I"
First I'm living
In my crib;
Clinging wrists.
Flitting my crib,
I'm Shy
Crying, whiny twit, missing bitty,
With stinky kids, kicking kitty.
I'm missing my crib.
I'm piling thinking bricks with big kids.
Slimy, smirking ***** hiss 'n' spit.
I'm sitting still in ill-fitting shirts,
shirking sight.
Hiding might blind ****** kids crying, "It's billy!!! Skinny **** 'n' smiling in fits.
"Try finding kind kids x"
Finding "whys" in rising minds.
My mind grinds.
I'm kicking tins, spilling drinks.
Sitting in IT,
Sir chillingly insists "it isn't "fly" spilling drinks! "Shy" brings skills. "Why" brings ills."
I'm still shy.
This crib's tiny.
Tiny minds, blind by bling.
Fit chicks with big ****
Thick ****** thinking with *****
I flit this Brit ****
Brisk flight,
I find "I"
Simply shimmying "ir(o)n lik(e) li(o)n in zi(o)n".
In Brit, I'm still shilling it,
Finding thrill in it,
Hiding 'til it lifts.
I'm brisk fixing it,
I'm hiding in drinks,
Finishing in clink.
Trying things,
High by night,
Slinking by, finding light.
Thinking "this is it!! I'm in!"
Tricky light. Light trick. Sight trick.
Lying in my mind
It's still ****
Is it?
His birth...
This child is my kid!
This brill kid!
I'M in this kid!
Big grin :D
First kid is big kid,
Mid kid is silly kid,
Quickly hitch my Miss.
Third kid. This kid, this girl is my girl.
Brill kids!
I bring my bling by flipping kids thinking bricks;
Fixing bits in thinking ink;
I'm finding it stinks.
Kids drink slick skills.
My mind chills with mind filling drills.
Kids grinding, crying spills -
"Sir, it's **** innit?
With missing mining, missing mills,
Im plying skills by filing bills."
I'm plying skills with mind pills.
Mrs "I" is criticising my id
Im minding my Ps n Qs
Biting my lip
Fists tight, shifting slightly
Slinking nightly
This is ****
Hit slight hitch
Hit BIG hitch
"'kin *****
I finish with my Mrs
Kids split 'twixt cribs.
Kids trips fix splits.
Kiss lips ***
"Night night x"
"Light?"
Click light.
Right, "night!"
I'm hiding my ills in girls.
IT pimps, swiping right.
Primp ****
Minging swill.
Fit chick.
Swift flirt.
Flirt, kiss, flirt, kiss.
Big ****
Tight slit.
Milky spit.
Wiping ****
Hiding ***** sight in mind,
I find it sticks.
I drift
Stick tight
Fighting my plight
Grin
"It's 'right"
Missing my crib
My ID
I'm finding my mind
Sticking with it
Fighting silly flirting ****
Try finding inspiring sights
My kids
My crib
My Inking
My Writing
My mind
My eye
I'm kind
I'm "I"
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC
His voice should be made into a cassette tape,
I'd carry it wherever I'd go,
His eyes are so piercing I'd be afraid if the stars themselves go dull,
Images in my head, engraved in my skull,
I love it when he calls me "love",
Quite ironic if you ask me,
The Great Brit!
The Great Brit!
Great Britain you see,
Where I'd much rather be,
It's much more than what I could have dreamed,
Hearing his voice ring in my ears as lovely as can be,
I think he can't agree,
Agree with me,
He believes his voice is short of magnificent,
His voice is a sweet instrument,
Must I end this right now and here?
For all I get caught up in is his voice in my ears.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
I stood by while the shopkeeper
rang up the tea stored in little Big Bens.
My girlfriend fiddled with some pens at the desk.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
We both replied, "California!"
"Ah, but you," he said,
looking her straight in the eye,
"where are you from originally?"
Her shoulders slumped.
She repressed a sigh.
"Well, my mom, and grandma, and grandpa,
and their parents, and their parents' parents
were all born in America,
but way back when my mom's side
came from Japan.
My dad's side is English though."
"Ah," said the shopkeeper, "So your mom
is from Japan. I could see something different
in your face."
Inside I cried'
"Where are you from originally?
It couldn't possibly be here,
you hair is the wrong color,
your skin a shade off,
so please give us your family history.
Or do you swear you're a Brit?
You were born here? Oh sure, but your mom?
Her too?
No, she must be a foreigner."
Instead, I handed over the notes,
grabbed the tea,
and left without saying a thing,
without saying a thing,
without saying a...
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 1:19 AM UTC
obviously chappy has a different connotation
(slang meaning for the orthodoxy resumed
in dictionary, i.e. bow-tie synonyousness)
in English language, etymology to no other
borrowed word from South African...
chappy just means a pigeon-walk of groove
when listening to Brit-Pop, or cheeky post-punk,
a bit like imagining a bowler hat on your head
while walking down Oxford St., so that's that
chappy; pigeons are naturally gifted in head-banging;
you're a chappy if you donned Ben Sherman shirts
without a belt, wearing jeans, styled on
an Oasis hit single... premature Quadrophenia
attainment to fit it... that how i define a chappy...
the zenith of Brit Pop, Ben Sherman shirts loose
over the waistline of jeans and sport sneakers,
and an Oasis single as the baseline for the heart to thump bu boom...
a real life chappy was this kid in primary school,
Tom... the exactness of what later became a metrosexual...
prior to that they were called chappies,
Ben Sherman shirts not tucked into a stiff pair of jeans...
you never could imagine an Englishman so under-dressed,
he must have come from Manchester
as was the obvious answer back then.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
Monarchic Rant
Though I was born in Britain
I am not a 'Brit'
I do not fit in
Their houses are so cold
Because they are too cheap
To turn up the ****** heat
I find some of them deceitful,
They self-righteously pretend
To be serene
And peaceful
But love to fight
All over the world
Blasting other beings
Into the netherworld
Tied to tradition
They insist
On going against the global grain
They weigh in stones
And still drive on the wrong
****** side of the road
They sing 'God Save The Queen'.
God has more common sense
He believes the word 'Excellency'
A too commonly used currency
Slapped, like a hat
On the head of a simple aristocrat
God save the common people
Living under too many thumbs
Of pretentious and powerful people,
With utterly obscene incomes
Sean Hunt Windermere Dec. 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
“Catherine Coulter and J.T. Ellison’s explosive Brit
in the FBI thriller The Sixth Day is now in paperback!”
One wouldn’t like to see an exploding Brit
Who would ruin one’s tweed country suit
Splattering English gore all over it –
That exploding galloping major brute!
But
Before the man went CRACK!
How did they ever fit
That pyrotechnic Brit
into a paperback?
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
On a cold winter’s night with the streets dark and still,
We converged at the Pillar with a plan and a will.
We placed sticks of dynamite Around and inside-
enough to send Lord Nelson upon his last ride.
In the wee hours of morning The fuses were lit.
We ran like mad devils so we wouldn’t get hit.
The concussive explosion made Lord Nelson fly.
Many windows were shattered, But nobody died.
It was fifty years on since our brothers in arms
Had proclaimed the Republic For which so many died.
The skyline’s been altered To reflect Erin’s pride.
The might Brit hero Will never again
Lord it over our Dublin Or free Irish men.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
you know it needs the thumb, index, middle and ring fingers to clasp the eroticism of the neck for the geese to fly in man inverse to the hellish fires of emotion that have no sense of temperament?
even the existential french philosopher sartre was fooled
by what the common man conquered
deemed the end of rome...
but the conversion gave us the long standing
byzantines: saint who never warred
and so warring turned to sainthood,
but the man was rags to riches fraud,
as archaeology - that thing above history proves:
can't deny the papyrus came from india
when it was found in egypt by a real shepherd:
unless you're in it for the money...
and not the fact that pharisees would not have
thrived unto exdous for muscle the 2nd time,
so why such intellectual diversity and thriving
under roman rule... because there was no dislocation?
the conversion of constantine empowered 2nd rome,
byzantine fabrics of jewel of sainthood
than never took to taking an acorn for some reason...
western rome was overrun with orcs, northern folk
previously not conquered when julius caesar looked
and the women of gaul and said: easy **** soldiers...
easy **** brit girls easy too, but have to pierce
the membrane of fickleness that mediates man conquering
and man scheming (paedophiles).
of course women are worth the conquest...
but in a western society what wages "justifiable"
as war outside of itself... inside it there's a sexist war of pacifism
of one *** *** changes... you name it...
in a society that exports war and imports pacifism
you will only get angry women and confused men...
pacifistic war is far from the pacific,
it's horrid... woman gets all the weapons:
**** **** nakedness, ***** and *******
man gets confused with what war is actually for:
profit... so he earns his share...
honestly... even though he's not warring...
so woman lives longer... becomes entombed
with inheritance... gets ken barbie the 2nd
******* of flamboyant killjoy mansion investments...
and it's equal: the worst sexism is one
that demands a pacifism of one *** but not both;
and we're living in a time when masculine sexuality
is pacified, and where feminine sexuality
is warring... easily duped by womanising wolves
that would reincarnate the third ***** somewhere
far from germany... like syria.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
When Neil Diamond wrote Hot August Night.
My god that chap was right.
In my bed I almost drown.
Love the weather.
Must cool down.
Swamped by sweats of night time kind.
Think I'm going outta my mind.
Come November being a Brit
When the weather cools down,
I'll whine about it.
I'll moan and groan like a sorrow filled mare.
When raindrops and icicles enter my hair.
Then I'll beg for summer sun.
One day when the rains fall I'll beg for summer sun.
Typical English chick.
(c)LIVVI
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
Do I leave, Do I stay
Do I play or run away
Which way today
Go left, go right
Do I stay, do I fight
Who’s my brother, who’s my mother
Who’s my wife, and who’s my lover
It’s me, or them,
It’s now, or then
Maybe my community,
Or a dangerous lion’s den
Do I tango,
Do I talk
Do I break
Or make a wall
Do I fly
Or do I fall
Left right Left right
Wrong Right Wrong Right
Far right Outta sight
Loose Tight Loose Tight
Left right Left right
Well now I’ve come to the crux of it
I’m going to be a Bodhisattva Brit
All this self, cherishing spin
Explains the state we’re in
Our imperialistic past
Built the wealth of our state
Now we’d better give some back
Before it’s way too late
Sean Hunt June 7 2016
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
432 was the amount
of a crushing defeat
for 202 Toe Rags.
432 is a symbolic figure
for Ireland and not a
poetic metaphor either,
it was the date St Patrick
arrived here from Boulogne
Sur Mer in Northern France,
where it was a tradition of the
local mariners to paint a shamrock
on their fishing boats.
432 has often been associated with
the 4 provinces and 32 counties.
John B. Keane's "Field" was 3 Acres
1 Rood and 32 Perches, a classic
representation of Ireland.
202, or TOT will become iconic also,
not as a number, more the word!
<>
TOT |tɒt|
verb (tots, totting, totted) [ no obj. ] (usu. as nountotting) Brit. informal
salvage saleable items from dustbins or ******* heaps. local authorities frown on totting.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 5:20 AM UTC
pirates, with a Huckleberry
******* row boat...
doing the Achilles vs. the tortoise
logic macabre with
Somalis...
if ever a microaggression...
meaning, curbed bodies and alliances
with ****** in the morge...
well... sign me up Libido Jim...
tis an un fo 'ah bone fide...
ah... fy fy n'oh fide... n'oh fight...
bonding fade... or post Latin post Brit
dicritical enclosure, loss...
Gaulish excess spelling
and not wonder:
the last remnant literacy monopoly...
dyslexia... eyes see one thing...
tongue speaks another...
trash the bib.,
remnant 0f bible, diacritical marks...
bone fide...
tetragrammaton fiddle with
the diacritical violin...
no, no Anaïs Nin ands a father figure...
id est more fetish figure and less
father rigour...
bond fíd(e)...
like all french... shy on the suffix ***
loss of diacritical canon...
as literate as the pastoral...
and God forbid I ever make the sort of dough
worthy of the sistine chapel or
the da vincy code...
I shadow, and the undercurrents...
John "kukła" Paul II...
or? John Paul "the wickerman"...
at least they allowed Ratzinger
the dignity of papa emeritus...
poles like bangladshis are
expendable... but worth the:
princess ought to have that unicorn...
my my... came slurping honey,
the sugar baby...
and the delayed claustrophobia
of the inescapable ratio
of women, outnumbering men...
and even Solomon,
employed eunuchs to tend
to his harem, stemming from
the myth of ****** stamina.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC