How's that for an anti-climax? I'm working on a Poetical Miscellany, a strange collection of poetry for my Brittish Literature class. I hated the idea until I realized how to defeat it. We have to turn in a project, and I will, but I'll make the teacher hate the poetry I select. I've decided that I'm going to select lewd poems about sex, or things that will gross him out. I'm supposed to pick 30 poems from a range of a thousand years of poetry in British literature
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Much like a root canal. Or paper cut on the tip of a finger. Well, rocky as this may be, it will never beat Mr. Rocky, who will sucessfully knock this article down; "I pity the foo!". It seems that the rocky, black granite that juts up from the shoreline of my conciousness will not cease to exist, even though I may pass thought, but by my words, my rules that I have predisposed, I have seen and given life to the lifeless slimy slabs of black, great ominous rock. I h
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