God...God, Yahweh, Allah, these are the most used forms.But what, exactly, does he do?Read books all day to worms?It almost seems that way to me,When I look at what's been happening.Gruesome images on TV;Death's cruel axe awakening.
Mincemeat PieHarry Potter's girlfriendGave this note to me,I hope he doesn't find that outOr murdered I will be."Mincemeat Pie", the letter read,"Baked by Ron's good mother.""I wonder what this letter means?"My little grey cells wondered."Could it be some kind of codeShe wants me to pass on?Or barring that,It's something thatShe thinks would turn me on?"Well, if thoughts like that go through her head,There's something pretty wrong.Regardless, there are a few thingsOn which I'm very strong.First comes the filling,Which I avidly hate.It looks like rotted cow dung,And makes you puke if ate.Pumpkin pie, or blueberry,Are more favored on my plate.But the worst thing about mincemeatHas gotta be the taste.It makes me very sick inside,Just like when I eat toothpaste.At once it makes my head start spinning,And to the bathroom run.It's like a narcotic and a laxative,Packaged into one.The second thing I have to sayIs stated simply thus:You can have a lot of friends in life,And
HorsesI could give you the old clichéOf horsesGalloping accross the open range,Manes streaming,Ripples of sinuey muscle playing accross their flanks.But that's the cliché.I have not once seenHorses running like that;Mostly, I see them standing around,Chewing hay,Or nuzzling the curious hands of youngChildren at the fair.Occasionally, I see them galloping around an oval track,But this doesn't hold a thing to theCountryside.The saddest part is thatThey are so accustomed to this soft living,Their taming is so complete,That they don't even know that there is something better,Somewhere,And that that wild, free expanse ofHinterland should be sought after and fought for.But if you were in their place,Wouldn't you rather accept your lot and get regular mealsThan have to forage those thousands of acres to stay alive?
GatsbyRich people are funny.They go to parties, get wasted,Enjoy themselves,And never really make friends.At least, not *real* friends.Sure, they make dinner friends,Tea friends,Golf and polo friends,But they never really get close to anyone.Heck, even married couples aren'tSatisfied.Sadly, this was the truthOf the twenties,A time of never-ending indulgences and intrigues.The money, the apathy,Hmph."Hmmm... I wonder what thatGuy down there is doing?Hey, he must be theOne my wife is sneaking off with!Oh, wait, I don't *have* a wife.I should go marry a girl so I canYell at her for cheating on me!"Yeah, weird.
CeruleanGleaming cerulean, the winter sky shines,Heating us up not one bit.As it grows colder, we whine and complainAbout these old gloves which don't fit."Nothing, no, nothing of mine fits anymore,And least of all holds hot air in.My fingers are freezing, my toes just got frozen,And my face is cut up by this wind.""Oh when, oh when will I ever get homeAnd get myself warmed up again?"
The Ballad of Three PiratesThe Ballad of Three Piratesby Peter Andrews and Ben WallThe first three verses were adapted from a song sung quite often during the Summer 2003 camp season at Wakpominee. The rest were created by us.Sung to the tune of "Johnny Comes Marching Home" and "The Ants go Marching"--------Three pirates came to London town, yo-ho, yo-hoThree pirates came to London town, yo-ho, yo-hoThree pirates came to London town to see the king put on his crown,Refrain (R):Yo-ho you lubbers, yo-ho you lubbers, yo-ho, yo-ho, yo-hoThat night they stopped at a wayside inn, yo-ho, yo-ho (2x)That night they stopped at a wayside inn, and asked the lord, "Please let us in"RLand lord give us your best red meat, yo-ho, yo-ho (2x)Land lord give us your best red meat, for we are hungry, we must eatRLand lord give us your bags of gold, yo-ho, yo-ho (2x)Land lord give us your bags of gold, enough to fill a galleon's holdRThen we made a fast retreat, yo-ho, yo-ho (2x)Then we made a fast retr
Forsaken BeginningsIt lies as an open book,The pages a marbled, manyhuedBeige.They are blank, yet may be readIn the purest language,That which needs no symbol.The book restsPeacefullyUpon the carcasses of discarded volumesCovered with dust and grime.These other books, they are worthless;Their pages covered inGrotesque scrawls,Their bodies scorched by fallenCandle wax.They have been read."What is in the untouched book?" I ask of myself."Happiness"