May 10, 2005

yets

its funy how u can go alogn for years not givign somhting teh slightast thuoghat an than sudanly u sit bolt upright an relize it rely needs to be adresed. i refar of cuorse to teh fact that wilim butlar yates is whildly overrated. what ware they thinkign whan they took im seriously? jupmin jesus! what asshats. an we still sufer for the chowderheaded jugemant of his comtemperaries to this vary day.

thares only one thats evan halfway wroth redin.

dowm by teh sally garnads my loav an i did sneeze
she blesd teh snailey gradans whit litl snowwhite fleas.
she bid me quit my howalin an swingin form teh trees
but i bein a pompous chowderhead with her wuld not agrea.

in a yada yada my lofe an i did snooze
an then got good an stinko on a quart a snow-white booze.
she bid me take love easy as the drunk fals off teh stool
but i grabed her boob er somethign an i guess that was uncool.

aux barricades, readers! its long past time for teh verdict of histary to bop that punk-ass bum right in the snoot.

might wana take a shot at sean o'casey too. whata loser.

update!

reders bystander an vague have both raminded me of teh secand coming. which i hafta admit that ones prety damn good. but i stil maintain he was a craphead on teh whole.

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Comments:

ah, yes. You know, I had forgotten that yeats was also a devotee of the word 'chowderhead'....thanks.

and your poem made me laugh my ass off!
 
I thought it was lovely. Really beautiful and sensitive. Would that someone send me a bouquet of narcissus flowers with that poem in the accompanying card. For surely, what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
 
The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

Yup. He foresaw the coming of the blogger.
 
"...but love has pitched his
mansion in the place of excrement" - that's a good bit.
 
That was bloody great. Hadn't laughed so much for about two days.

And you haven't even got round to mentioning the plays. Three acts of people with names that look like you spelt them,* standing around next to wells and talking about helmets and banshees and then inexplicably dying.

*no offence
 
Yes, Audrey--the Crazy Jane poems are good. I also like the one about the night and the light and the half-light, except for the cheesy last line about his dreams. Dreams? Not caring so much.
 
Even with his good poems, when you try to read them out you find yourself caught out and having to force the rhythm at one point or another. Ahhh, playing with your expectations you see. No, just using the wrong words.
 
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