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"shortish" poems
Corsican born, and an emperor mighty indeed. Who from obscurity came up to prominence, who from French shores the attacks of armies repelled, who had at his disposal, Europe's resources, who to Saint Helena from French shores was expelled. Of old Italian nobility he was seed. Shortish in height, yet towering in ambition. Military genius of the highest distinction, whose military strategy is second to none save Alexander. Whose courage is held in reverence, whose cradle at infancy was kept in a cave from strong invading imperialist French forces. He gave up an empire so vast at Waterloo; A threat to the memories of his victories past. Mighty Napoleon, who at Austerlitz excelled. You did on the beautiful older Josephine cast your loving eyes, which were hypnotized with passion, yet focused on so lofty an ambition. Not even your love for her would rival your love for world conquest, for which you assiduously strove.
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Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 1:46 AM UTC
Napoleon Bonaparte
I love you To the moon And back Thats our quote No one can take that Off to infinity Then to beyond Forever and ever Our two hearts have a perminant bond I love you dearly Thse words are special I hold them near and dear Not saying them is not acceptable They mean so much So much in one shortish quote It will be tatted on my arm This quote isnt a joke I love you daddy Here's to forever Those words we say Will last forever Full Quote: "I love you to the moon and back, to infinity and beyond, forever and ever."
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Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
To The Moon And Back....
Over the hill which was dusty and complete lay perfectly nothing. It stood and it stood with its big cow lips. Reluctant to say anything in a disappointing display with some of us elderly and expecting entertainment and come all this way I listened for exactly ten minutes, aggressively. This entire situation had been recommended to me at a party at which she was drunk. The hill at night was reluctant to purse its dust and listen aggressively to plaintive violoncello. The spider-lady in the living room was reluctant to sleep with the shortish man but liked the way he spoke. For exactly ten minutes no one was sure if various members of this post-rock band could be pinned down as anarchists. So everything stood with its dusty cow lips, disappointed. Stood and stood like nice white kids from Canada in a cruddy hall full of apparently random images, begging to be taken seriously.
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Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
Untitled
In a coffee shop at the back with her black laptop dark haired in glasses a studious dame taps away then pauses stares then bites a lower lip Johnny spies her as he talks to others he sips his coke in glass and ice sees her readjust her spectacles someone talks of the economy and some fraud in the City but Johnny watches over the shoulder of another how the young dame taps away with a florid flush of fingers then stops and smiles (to herself not him) he takes in her black top and black shortish skirt moderately busted pretty in a geekish way he assumes another talks of a famous singer dying Johnny recalls her (the singer) in her heyday long since gone the young dame rises to go to the WC in a side passage but it's occupied so she walks back to her seat and sits in the background some jazz music plays cool sax weaves with sparse piano the WC is now free and the young dame rises again from her seat to return to the WC and as she walks past and down the passageway seeing her tight wiggling *** has made his day.
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Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 3:02 AM UTC
MADE HIS DAY.