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BonRimbaud

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Everything posted by BonRimbaud

  1. To a Mouse BY ROBERT BURNS On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785. Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickerin brattle! I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee Wi’ murd’ring pattle! I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, An’ justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle, At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An’ fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave ’S a sma’ request: I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, An’ never miss ’t! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, O’ foggage green! An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin, Baith snell an’ keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, An’ weary Winter comin fast, An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro’ thy cell. That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble, An’ cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, For promis’d joy! Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! I backward cast my e’e, On prospects drear! An’ forward tho’ I canna see, I guess an’ fear!
  2. dedicated to Matt hancock TWAT By John Cooper Clarke Like a Night Club in the morning, you’re the bitter end Like a recently disinfected shit-house, you’re clean round the bend You give me the horrors Too bad to be true All of my tomorrow’s Are lousy coz of you You put the Shat in Shatter Put the Pain in Spain Your germs are splattered about Your face is just a stain You’re certainly no raver, commonly known as a drag Do us all a favour, here… wear this polythene bag You’re like a dose of scabies I’ve got you under my skin You make life a fairy tale… Grimm! People mention murder, the moment you arrive I’d consider killing you if I thought you were alive You’ve got this slippery quality It makes me think of phlegm And a dual personality I hate both of them Your bad breath, vamps disease, destruction, and decay Please, please, please, please, take yourself away Like a death a birthday party You ruin all the fun Like a sucked and spat our smartie you’re no use to anyone Like the shadow of the guillotine On a dead consumptive’s face Speaking as an outsider What do you think of the human race You went to a progressive psychiatrist He recommended suicide… Before scratching your bad name off his list And pointing the way outside You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart You’re heading for a breakdown Better pull yourself apart Your dirty name gets passed about when something goes amiss Your attitudes are platitudes Just make me wanna piss What kind of creature bore you Was is some kind of bat They can’t find a good word for you But I can… TWAT
  3. A Song: “Men of England” BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay ye low? Wherefore weave with toil and care The rich robes your tyrants wear? Wherefore feed and clothe and save From the cradle to the grave Those ungrateful drones who would Drain your sweat—nay, drink your blood? Wherefore, Bees of England, forge Many a weapon, chain, and scourge, That these stingless drones may spoil The forced produce of your toil? Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, Shelter, food, love’s gentle balm? Or what is it ye buy so dear With your pain and with your fear? The seed ye sow, another reaps; The wealth ye find, another keeps; The robes ye weave, another wears; The arms ye forge, another bears. Sow seed—but let no tyrant reap: Find wealth—let no imposter heap: Weave robes—let not the idle wear: Forge arms—in your defence to bear. Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells— In hall ye deck another dwells. Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see The steel ye tempered glance on ye. With plough and spade and hoe and loom Trace your grave and build your tomb And weave your winding-sheet—till fair England be your Sepulchre.
  4. what's the weather like in Iraq tomorrow? sunni up north, but it is shite down south
  5. tis the season to be jolly. I would like to share the following experience. I consumed lots of psylocybin this morning and went for a walk to see the sun come up. I was listening to the album 'heavy soul' by Paul weller recently and as I walked, the song 'peacock suit' was playing in my head. I then had the fortune of bumping into a peacock! just wandering around, strutting it's stuff. I was in a heavily built up area where one does not expect to see such creatures. I laughed to myself and was thoroughly reassured of gods love.
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