This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest’s for a clam in a shell,
So I’m thinking of throwing the battle-
Would you kindly direct me to hell?
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And sit a moment, to defineHis means of self-protection.How truly fortified is he!Where is the beast his doubleIn forethought of emergencyAnd readiness for trouble?Recall his figure, and his shade-How deftly planned and clearlyFor slithering through the dappled gladeUnseen, or pretty nearly.Yet should an alien eye discernHis presence in the woodland,How little has he left to…
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How are you to slake me, and how are you to feed me?With bitter yellow berries, and a sharp new wine.New love, new love, shall I be forsaken?One shall go a-wandering, and one of us must sigh.Sweet it is to slumber, but how shall we awaken-Whose will be the broken heart, when dawn comes by?
Oh, seek, my love, your newer way;
So long as I have yesterday,Go take your damned tomorrow!
I shall come back without fanfaronade
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