If you don't struggle up the mountain what can you carry down? If you can't jog the miles per day you'll wobble like a clown. Such idle, pick-nose poetry will never gain a crown.
'Ah to hell with it!' screeched the cockatoos.
So happy go lucky, so yacky go clucky, so tacky go gucky, so hacky go schmucky, you're a pebble-dash vernacular, not much of architecture. Got no posture; can't deliver the lecture.
'Ah to hell with it!' screeched the cockatoos.
You bear no faith, have no truck with that suggestive gas whispering out of caverns.* You're too old for the taverns, steer clear of politicians. No whining 'Oh, alas,' when you dice with meritricians* and debase the coinage so.
'Ah to hell with it!' screeched the cockatoos.
The trouble with you and your ode is you don't deploy poetic code; you should force them to think, while the sub-text's a wink, you're that white line that stitches a road.
'WTF!' screeched the cockatoos!
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The delphic oracle, Pythia, may have been under the influence of ethylene gas, it has been mooted.
In my coinage today, meretricians are folks who habitually write meretriciously - it glitters but is just bling.
