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Mock me. Treat me like a child.
So me your way to equality. And limit my rights.
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On my way tp Paradise I met a lady who
sang the sweetest lulla-by.
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A lackluster conversation, so often with my lead.
And my words that betray her. Quick , just meant to please.
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Faceless lives. Bequeath nothing but a soul.
And the mask of inhumanity caste them aside.
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Little toy soldiers littered the floor.
And the smell of beer poured from his breath.
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There seems less a shadow when she whispers her love.
An all inclusive comprehensive from her heart.
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A sonnet for the barroom slut.
' Whiskey , Whiskey, Nancy, whiskey.
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Seeking the paradise and splendor in the grass.
One may often cross the line of morality.
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No longer " Silent Night "
No purpose to seek joy.
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Tired of working? Sick of being held accountable?
Sexually restrained? Wanna bed your neighbors kid?
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Rock bottom prices. Let go for a song.
And deliver that speech that makes no world mourn.
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Hand outs. Freebies. Promises . And self medication.
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Have you seen Casper the friendly ghost or Santa lately?
Do you believe in Aesop's fables or the tooth fairy?
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" When the wicked cometh, then cometh also contempt,
and with ignominy reproach. '
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Must a pray be within parameters.
And as I seek her flesh, may I also seek redemption?
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The finer things that fills my head.
Not boobs or ass are want instead.
by Bob Fox
21 lines, 15 comments,
on Nov 12 2:22 PM. In Humor
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Cupid resides at her doorstep.
Dukes linger at her side.
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Screen setters delight. Established motions contrived.
And the Carmel tainted poison to capture the darkest of thoughts.
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The setting , a bar, The blond on the make.
And the legs of an Angel. My manhood at stake.
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Setting on the banks of the Prospect park lake.
I spied a Guppy soon to be born again.
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Perhaps an inside trader in trying times.
One who has pooped in his pajamas while loosing his mind.
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The lunar moon glares not upon my body.
Nor do hairs and fangs spring forth for delight.
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Cease breath, cease.
Stagger on to the unknown.
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Hero worship, like gangrene, now pisses on pure hearts.
And all the saints there ever was, are no replaced by specious tarts.
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No dazzling green eyed beauty,
or Polynesian cutie.
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The sweetest scent of life,
for blessed are the young.
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Seeking out the prefect mate. Probing, exploring , denying any blemish.
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Soothing sensations to sanctity the insanity.
Salacious , scented sighs , signifying solidarity.
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Often my trips to fantasy land were a mixture of hope and youth.
The real deal imaginations kept inside.
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Hours of being saturated by inept loneliness, opens up my passageway to hell.
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Sitting in the darkness there is a beggar,
awaiting that mystical moment of truth.
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Blasphemous, shamefull desires.
I stretch the pages of a wordless book seeking relief.
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Dark shadows, it seems, had been my plight.
Frigid nights alone in thought.
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Searching for that eternal equinox?
That pathway to Paradise?
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