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Edited by Martin Septim: 3/22/2014 10:53:51 PM
3

To be a poet

To mould the clay of words Into a form rarely seen by others Is a poet's job To say what can't be said To spill the thousand thoughts inside their head And to paint with them As Picasso they sit With brushes dancing upon the easel Of a clear night sky Ready they are to paint The beautiful clouds that do all but taint The blackness they pass And as the clouds fade off Into the night like ships on the ocean So the poet stills
English
#Offtopic #Bard

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  • With a cock in each hand the bard dances, Forming rhyming words into art as he prances. The king of the brown rings, the gaseous masses, Of his name they sing whilst dripping white molasses. The bard, the bard of the offtopic section, The master, the caster of the throbbing erection, To whom will your sultry words reach, To whom will you erotically teach, Sitting upon your throne of crusty old condoms and socks, The way, the will, of the bards handling of cocks.

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