The Nymph’s no sense of socks

a rejoinder to the poem by Christopher Marlowe 'The Passionate Shepherd to His Love'
(by me, coincidentally not a nymph sock bearer)

Do heed me these reasons so few,
As I will say them only t’you.
From sitting up on rocks you say,
With no offer of socks thy day.

You say we would look at sheep,
I would rather deeply sleep.
But if you could keep their wool,
You may have been able to pay and pull.

To the proffer of many a poise,
Yet it escapes you, thou art so nosey.
To be all folly, should I do pursue?
Go to Molly, once will you her subdue.

Hear me above severe, your so called loved dear,
As I am nearing here, the end of my mere rear.
My feet are cold, and it is getting old,
That all I want you to be told:
Can you please have some socks a fold?

My heart is locked and blocked from you,
As you offer me no sense of socks that would do.
So may you dare, for socks, one pair?

poor poetry and rubbish rhyme

The sun is so,
And the light is down,
And none will go,
As the kite flies round.

Present with open palms,
Whilst everything is calm.
Pound the ground with every step,
And let nothing be met without depth.

Once I did a dance.
More like a terrible prance.
I ended up in a un brilliant trance.
And may that be that perchance.

Ngubi

There is a remarkable insect that lives in African deserts called the Ngubi beetle. It drinks its own sweat to survive, which it toils to produce.

quite self-explanatory

The Fish That Used Stilts, As It Had No Legs

On 18th Century Literature

Literature in the 18th century appeared like a well bred, elderly gentleman in ruffles and a peruke, of polished but somewhat chilling manners, who met all warmth of feeling with the frost of etiquette, and whose conversation, restricted to certain subjects, touched but the surface of these and even that in set phrases.

Foregoing Events of Day in Brief

I woke this morning, in my bed nestled in my sheets, at 5:19 ante meridiem, partly due to the noise being made of my rather eccentric neighbour, and partly because I needed to go to the toilet. I peered out of my window and saw that he [the neighbour] was stark naked, wearing nothing at all, besides from a sailor’s cap, thongs, and to complement his attire, he was holding an umbrella, which was, quite fortunately, covering his private parts. He was shouting to some extent, "I am the velvet fog and shall blossom on the morrow and venture through sanity…" I, of course was completely bewildered and hoodwinked by said actions; thought the apocalypse had arrived and hence said to the man who referred to himself as the velvet fog, or my rather unconventional neighbour, "Oh, what gobbledygook, surely you jest Mr Velvet Fog? It must be pure repartee, and not, in point of fact, realistic what you said are about to undertake?" I then, as I believed it was the apocalypse, proceeded to the kitchen and put a paper bag over my head, thinking that a paper bag might provide some protection from the apocalypse. "I wash my hands of this foolish affair." I said while having the bag over my head.

I suddenly remembered, 'it was a Sunday', meaning it was a day before Monday. Which meant nothing in it self, however, because I had a paper bag on my head, I could pretend to be anything, anything at all, anything imaginable. And as it was the apocalypse, or as I thought it was the apocalypse, I pretended to be Batman. I decided to be Batman for two rather unrelated, strange reasons. The first being, only a superhero could survive an apocalypse, or so popular culture has led me to believe, and secondly, because I had just seen the film The Dark Knight a few days prior, which I must say was first class, so Batman was fresh in my mindless mind. With my new found imaginary superpowers, I ran out into the front yard, but since I still had a paper bag over my head, covering my eyes, I ran into a jacaranda and fell over. I got up quickly, took of the paper bag and saw that the postman, who had been delivering the mail, was at the letterbox staring at me. I went over to the letterbox, collected the mail and said to the postman, "Do you know who I am, Mr…" I looked at his name tag which stated: Warren, "…Mr Warren. Do you. I am Batman." The postman looked at me (I was still in my pyjamas), and said "Hello Batman, do you know that you are bleeding from your head?" I said no and thank you, and with that the confused postman was off in his motorbike, continuing his job of delivering mail. I went back inside, and put a bandaid on the cut the postman had so kindly pointed out to me, and, being bored of being Batman, I went back to sleep, sleeping until late afternoon.

YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE AMERICAN SECTOR

I believe wholly in the redistribution of wealth and possessions equally and removal of all social class and systems in favour of complete egalitarianism. Also in the complete rejection of materialistic consumerist, self-image based egotistical, elitist imperialist views of the wasteful phenomenon of western capitalism in favour of a more minimalist view. Who needs the modern consumer comforts of the day really? Western perspectives are appalling.

GIVE WHAT YOU CAN, TAKE ONLY WHAT YOU NEED!

The thing about life is we all die.

After you turn 7, your risk of dying doubles every eight years. At octogenarian stage, you no longer even have a distinctive odour. You're vanishing. The brain of a 90-year-old is the same size as that of a 3-year-old.

That's the thing about life, we all die in the end.

How depressing.