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Vorpal blade went SNICKER-SNACK

BelruelBelruel nawRegistered User regular
edited May 2010 in Social Entropy++
So ladies and fellows, I am curious as to what your favorite poems are and why! Let's show each other some awesome new stuff, or discuss some awesome older work as only SE++ can.

Something awesome watch this: Sir Christopher Lee reads Jabberwocky


There's loads of awesome verse out there, some of it funny, some will really make you think. Some hits you right in your gut and makes your chest burn.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Some poetry is only good because it is so bad, such is the case of Julia A Moore, famous because her work was so awful.

here's a couple good bits
She was not gone but a little while
When they heard her playmates call --
Her friends hastened there to save the child,
Alas, she was dead and gone.

Those little girls will not forget
The day little Hattie died,
For she was with them when she fell in a fit,
While playing by their side.

OR MAYBE WE CAN ALL WRITE SILLY LIMERICKS, YES?

Belruel on
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Posts

  • Sars_BoySars_Boy Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    i thought this was gonna be about fables and then i felt silly

  • [Michael][Michael] Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    I had to memorize Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost for English Composition 2 years ago and I haven't forgotten it. That's really the last time I did anything with poetry.

    I guess it's a nice poem.

  • Charles KinboteCharles Kinbote Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
  • OrikaeshigitaeOrikaeshigitae Registered User, ClubPA regular
    edited May 2010
    april is the cruelest month, breeding
    lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
    memory and desire, stirring
    dull roots with spring rain.

  • Agent VesagoAgent Vesago Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    I like this one.

    Yesterday, upon the stair,
    I met a man who wasn’t there
    He wasn’t there again today
    I wish, I wish he’d go away...

    When I came home last night at three
    The man was waiting there for me
    But when I looked around the hall
    I couldn’t see him there at all!
    Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
    Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door.

    Last night I saw upon the stair
    A little man who wasn’t there
    He wasn’t there again today
    Oh, how I wish he’d go away


    And this one too.

    One bright day in the middle of the night,
    Two dead boys got up to fight.
    Back-to-back they faced one another,
    Drew their swords and shot each other.
    One was blind and the other couldn't see,
    So they chose a dummy for a referee.
    A blind man went to see fair play,
    A dumb man went to shout "hooray!"
    A deaf policeman heard the noise,
    And came and shot the two dead boys.
    A paralyzed donkey walking by,
    Kicked the copper in the eye,
    Sent him through a rubber wall,
    Into a dry ditch and drowned them all.
    (If you don't believe this lie is true,
    Ask the blind man -- he saw it too

    Clowns.jpg
  • Kuribo's ShoeKuribo's Shoe Kuribo's Stocking North PoleRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    THE TYGER (from Songs Of Experience)
    By William Blake
    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand dare sieze the fire?

    And what shoulder, & what art.
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand? & what dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain?
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

    When the stars threw down their spears,
    And watered heaven with their tears,
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

    xmassig2.gif
  • Sars_BoySars_Boy Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
    Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs
    And towards our distant rest3 began to trudge.
    Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots4
    Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

    Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
    Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;
    But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
    And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .
    Dim, through the misty panes10 and thick green light,
    As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
    In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
    He plunges at me, guttering,11 choking, drowning.

    If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
    Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
    And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
    His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
    If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
    Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
    Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud12
    Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
    My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13
    To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
    The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
    Pro patria mori

  • BelruelBelruel naw Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    april is the cruelest month, breeding
    lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
    memory and desire, stirring
    dull roots with spring rain.

    orik is my homeboy in dis wasteland


    Here is no water but only rock
    Rock and no water and the sandy road
    The road winding above among the mountains
    Which are mountains of rock without water
    If there were water we should stop and drink
    Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think

  • Charles KinboteCharles Kinbote Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    I've always vastly preferred cummings to eliot, though I like applying critical theory to eliot more?

    love is a place -
    love is a place
    & through this place of
    love move
    (with brightness of peace)
    all places

    yes is a world
    & in this world of
    yes live
    (skilfully curled)
    all worlds
    i carry your heart with me -
    i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
    my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
    i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
    by only me is your doing,my darling)
    i fear
    no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
    no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
    and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
    and whatever a sun will always sing is you

    here is the deepest secret nobody knows
    (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
    and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
    higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
    and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

    i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

    and then of course the greatest American poet:
    The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them,
    And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

    Listener up there! Here, you! What have you to confide to me?
    Look in my face, while I snuff the sidle of evening;
    Talk honestly—no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.

    Do I contradict myself?
    Very well, then, I contradict myself;
    (I am large—I contain multitudes.)

    I concentrate toward them that are nigh—I wait on the door-slab.

    Who has done his day’s work? Who will soonest be through with his supper?
    Who wishes to walk with me?

    Will you speak before I am gone? Will you prove already too late?

    www.twitter.com/amazingwarlock
  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


    Ogden Nash wrote:
    Once upon a time there was an Italian,
    And some people thought he was a rapscallion,
    But he wasn't offended,
    Because other people thought he was splendid,
    And he said the world was round,
    And everybody made an uncomplimentary sound,
    But he went and tried to borrow some money from Ferdinand
    But Ferdinand said America was a bird in the bush and he'd rather have a berdinand,
    But Columbus' brain was fertile, it wasn't arid,
    And he remembered that Ferdinand was married,
    And he thought, there is no wife like a misunderstood one,
    Because if her husband thinks something is a terrible idea she is bound to think it a good one,
    So he perfumed his handkerchief with bay rum and citronella,
    And he went to see Isabella,
    And he looked wonderful but he had never felt sillier,
    And she said, I can't place the face but the aroma is familiar,
    And Columbus didn't say a word,
    All he said was, I am Columbus, the fifteenth-century Admiral Byrd,
    And, just as he thought, her disposition was very malleable,
    And she said, Here are my jewels, and she wasn't penurious like Cornelia the mother of the Gracchi, she wasn't referring to her children, no, she was referring to her jewels, which were very very valuable,
    So Columbus said, Somebody show me the sunset and somebody did and he set sail for it,
    And he discovered America and they put him in jail for it,
    And the fetters gave him welts,
    And they named America after somebody else,
    So the sad fate of Columbus ought to be pointed out to every child and every voter,
    Because it has a very important moral, which is, Don't be a discoverer, be a promoter.



    From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
    And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
    Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,
    I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
    When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

    www.facebook.com/itgetsworseska
    Spoiler:
  • BelruelBelruel naw Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    t vesago- I rather like that first one, I don't remember coming across it before, but I enjoy the wordplay. That second one is a favorite of mine too. I've heard it used in a few things, though I'll be damned if I can think of any right now.

    t shoe- oh man, I think we studied this one in one of my AP english courses, it's been a while since I read it though.

  • OrikaeshigitaeOrikaeshigitae Registered User, ClubPA regular
    edited May 2010
    Belruel wrote: »
    april is the cruelest month, breeding
    lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
    memory and desire, stirring
    dull roots with spring rain.

    orik is my homeboy in dis wasteland


    Here is no water but only rock
    Rock and no water and the sandy road
    The road winding above among the mountains
    Which are mountains of rock without water
    If there were water we should stop and drink
    Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think

    and when we came back from the hyacinth garden,
    your arms full and your hair wet, i could not
    speak, and my eyes failed, i was neither
    living nor dead, and i knew nothing,
    looking into the heart of light, the silence.
    empty and wide as the sea.

  • MrMonroeMrMonroe Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    I like that Dylan Thomas piece in the OP

    here is the Bob Dylan piece on the same subject:
    Spoiler:


    I'm trying to write some silly limericks about my property exam but it's difficult to find words to rhyme with "perpetuities"

  • OrikaeshigitaeOrikaeshigitae Registered User, ClubPA regular
    edited May 2010
    also Irving Layton is big pimpin

    Whatever Else Poetry is Freedom

    Whatever else poetry is freedom.
    Forget the rhetoric, the trick of lying
    All poets pick up sooner or later. From the river,
    Rising like the thin voice of grey castratos - the mist;
    Poplars and pines grow straight but oaks are gnarled;
    Old codgers must speak of death, boys break windows,
    Women lie honestly by their men at last.

    And I who gave my Kate a blackened eye
    Did to its vivid changing colours
    Make up an incredible musical scale;
    And now I balance on wooden stilts and dance
    And thereby sing to the loftiest casements.
    See how with polish I bow from the waist.
    Space for these stilts! More space or I fail!

    And a crown I say for my buffoon's head.
    Yet no more fool am I than King Canute,
    Lord of our tribe, who scanned and scorned;
    Who half-deceived, believed; and, poet, missed
    The first white waves come nuzzling at his feet;
    Then damned the courtiers and the foolish trial
    With a most bewildering and unkingly jest.

    It was the mist. It lies inside one like a destiny.
    A real Jonah it lies rotting like a lung.
    And I know myself undone who am a clown
    And wear a wreath of mist for a crown;
    Mist with the scent of dead apples,
    Mist swirling from black oily waters at evening,
    Mist from the fraternal graves of cemeteries.

    It shall drive me to beg my food and at last
    Hurl me broken I know and prostrate on the road;
    Like a huge toad I saw, entire but dead,
    That Time mordantly had blacked; O pressed
    To the moist earth it pled for entry.
    I shall be I say that stiff toad for sick with mist
    And crazed I smell the odour of mortality.

    And Time flames like a paraffin stove
    And what it burns are the minutes I live.
    At certain middays I have watched the cars
    Bring me from afar their windshield suns;
    What lay to my hand were blue fenders,
    The suns extinguished, the drivers wearing sunglasses.
    And it made me think I had touched a hearse.

    So whatever else poetry is freedom. Let
    Far off the impatient cadences reveal
    A padding for my breathless stilts. Swivel,
    O hero, in the fleshy grooves, skin and glycerine,
    And sing of lust, the sun's accompanying shadow
    Like a vampire's wing, the stillness in dead feet -
    Your stave brings resurrection, O aggrieved king.

  • GSMGSM Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    May life be to them a succession of hurts
    May fleas by the bushel inhabit their shirts
    May aches and diseases encamp in their bones,
    Their lungs full of tubercles, bladders of stones
    May microbes, bacilli, their tissues infest,
    And tapeworms securely their bowels digest

    May corn-cobs be snared without hope in their hair,
    And frequent impalement their pleasure impair.
    Disturbed be their dreams by the awful discourse
    Of audible sofas sepulchrally hoarse,
    By chairs acrobatic and wavering floors --
    The mattress that kicks and the pillow that snores!

    Sons of cupidity, cradled in sin!
    Your criminal ranks may the death angel thin,
    Avenging the friend whom I couldn't work in.

    K.Q.

  • Kuribo's ShoeKuribo's Shoe Kuribo's Stocking North PoleRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Where the Sidewalk Ends

    There is a place where the sidewalk ends
    And before the street begins,
    And there the grass grows soft and white,
    And there the sun burns crimson bright,
    And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
    To cool in the peppermint wind.

    Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
    And the dark street winds and bends.
    Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
    We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
    And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
    To the place where the sidewalk ends.

    Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
    And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
    For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
    The place where the sidewalk ends.

    Shel Silverstein

    xmassig2.gif
  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    also i fucking hate long poems.

    long, in this instance, is anything over about 100 lines.

    brevity, after all, is the soul of wit.

    www.facebook.com/itgetsworseska
    Spoiler:
  • FishmanFishman I find your lack of imperial stormtroopers disturbingRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    "It's a Boo-"

    X-Com LP Thread I, II, III, IV, V
    That's unbelievably cool. Your new name is cool guy. Let's have sex.
    Hail to thee, Lightbringer.
  • FedoraFedora Registered User
    edited May 2010
    The Artist and his Luckless Wife
    They lead a horrid haunted life,
    Surrounded by the things he's made
    That are not wanted by the trade.

    The world is very fair to see;
    The Artist will not let it be;
    He fiddles with the works of God,
    And makes them look uncommon odd.

    The Artist is an awful man,
    He does not do the things he can;
    He does the things he cannot do,
    And we attend the private view.

    The Artist uses honest paint
    To represent things as they ain't,
    He then asks money for the time
    It took to perpetrate the crime.

    Sir Walter Raleigh
    Spoiler:

  • SheriSheri Resident Fluffer My Living RoomRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    i like my body when it is with your
    body. It is so quite new a thing.
    Muscles better and nerves more.
    i like your body. i like what it does,
    i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
    of your body and its bones, and the trembling
    -firm-smooth ness and which i will
    again and again and again
    kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
    i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
    of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
    over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,

    and possibly i like the thrill

    of under me you so quite new

  • BelruelBelruel naw Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    also i fucking hate long poems.

    long, in this instance, is anything over about 100 lines.

    brevity, after all, is the soul of wit.

    sorry, nooope.

  • SheriSheri Resident Fluffer My Living RoomRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    No wait this one
    anyone lived in a pretty how town
    (with up so floating many bells down)
    spring summer autumn winter
    he sang his didn't he danced his did

    Women and men(both little and small)
    cared for anyone not at all
    they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
    sun moon stars rain

    children guessed(but only a few
    and down they forgot as up they grew
    autumn winter spring summer)
    that noone loved him more by more

    when by now and tree by leaf
    she laughed his joy she cried his grief
    bird by snow and stir by still
    anyone's any was all to her

    someones married their everyones
    laughed their cryings and did their dance
    (sleep wake hope and then)they
    said their nevers they slept their dream

    stars rain sun moon
    (and only the snow can begin to explain
    how children are apt to forget to remember
    with up so floating many bells down)

    one day anyone died i guess
    (and noone stooped to kiss his face)
    busy folk buried them side by side
    little by little and was by was

    all by all and deep by deep
    and more by more they dream their sleep
    noone and anyone earth by april
    wish by spirit and if by yes.

    Women and men(both dong and ding)
    summer autumn winter spring
    reaped their sowing and went their came
    sun moon stars rain

  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    This Is Just To Say
    by William Carlos Williams

    I have eaten
    the plums
    that were in
    the icebox

    and which
    you were probably
    saving
    for breakfast

    Forgive me
    they were delicious
    so sweet
    and so cold

    see? nice and short and awesome, evocative but not wordy.

    www.facebook.com/itgetsworseska
    Spoiler:
  • Charles KinboteCharles Kinbote Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    so far sheri is woopin all of your butts

    www.twitter.com/amazingwarlock
  • Dee KaeDee Kae Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Yeeeeeeeeeees you are posting what I thought you were, and it's pure gold fo' surr.

    More people need to read Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf.

  • SheriSheri Resident Fluffer My Living RoomRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Dee Kae wrote: »
    Yeeeeeeeeeees you are posting what I thought you were, and it's pure gold fo' surr.

    More people need to read Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf.

    Yes yes this is what I want

  • BelruelBelruel naw Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    sheri I love that poem let's hug

    edit- the e.e. cummings

  • SheriSheri Resident Fluffer My Living RoomRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    i carry your heart with me -
    i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
    my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
    i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
    by only me is your doing,my darling)
    i fear
    no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
    no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
    and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
    and whatever a sun will always sing is you

    here is the deepest secret nobody knows
    (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
    and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
    higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
    and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

    i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

    Luckily Shank posted this one cuz I was gonna

  • SheriSheri Resident Fluffer My Living RoomRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Belruel wrote: »
    sheri I love that poem let's hug

    edit- the e.e. cummings

    'Kay huuuuugs

    I seriously cannot express enough how much I love cummings over any other poet pretty much ever on the planet

  • LockoutLockout I am still searching Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Ted Kooser wrote:
    Today, from a distance, I saw you
    walking away, and without a sound
    the glittering face of a glacier
    slid into the sea. An ancient oak
    fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
    a handful of leaves, and an old woman
    scattering corn to her chickens looked up
    for an instant. At the other side
    of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
    the size of our own sun exploded
    and vanished, leaving a small green spot
    on the astronomer's retina
    as he stood on the great open dome
    of my heart with no one to tell.

    f24GSaF.jpg
  • mensch-o-maticmensch-o-matic Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    belruel yes this thread owns
    790: Forever
    "Forever"
    Jason Flatowicz

    You said you'd
    never fall down
    the stairs again,
    so I tripped you,
    to remind you
    there is no way
    to control your
    destiny as long
    as I hold you
    back, and that's
    why I flew away,
    giving you time
    to escape until
    it was time for
    us to meet
    again, and we
    will meet again,
    over and over.

  • mensch-o-maticmensch-o-matic Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    EMPTINESS
    Subhuti was Buddha's disciple. He was able to understand the potency of emptiness, the viewpoint that nothing exists except in its relationship of subjectivity and objectivity.

    One day Subhuti, in a mood of sublime emptiness, was sitting under a tree. Flowers began to fall about him.

    "We are praising you for your discourse on emptiness," the gods whispered to him.

    "But I have not spoken of emptiness," said Subhuti.

    "You have not spoken of emptiness, we have not heard emptiness," responded the gods. "This is true emptiness." And blossoms showered upon Subhuto as rain.

    can i put that there even though its not a poem? because i love it

  • Charles KinboteCharles Kinbote Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    What dharma text is that from?

    www.twitter.com/amazingwarlock
  • SheriSheri Resident Fluffer My Living RoomRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    if you like my poems let them
    walk in the evening,a little behind you

    then people will say
    "Along this road i saw a princess pass
    on her way to meet her lover(it was
    toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants."

  • scarlet blvd.scarlet blvd. Bebop Cola Goooood!Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    I do not get poetry

  • Dee KaeDee Kae Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    I do not get poetry

    Nor do I, but I suddenly feel the urge to recite it though. For no given reason.

  • scarlet blvd.scarlet blvd. Bebop Cola Goooood!Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Dee Kae wrote: »
    I do not get poetry

    Nor do I, but I suddenly feel the urge to recite it though. For no given reason.

    it's the Sickness
    you should go to the doctor

  • UbikUbik i am a god in a french-ass restaurantRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    so much depends
    upon

    a red wheel
    barrow

    glazed with rain
    water

    beside the white
    chickens.

    -William Carlos Williams

    CleezusSig_zpsfa821add.png
  • BelruelBelruel naw Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Ubik wrote: »
    so much depends
    upon

    a red wheel
    barrow

    glazed with rain
    water

    beside the white
    chickens.

    -William Carlos Williams

    yes yes yes this is what I want

  • mensch-o-maticmensch-o-matic Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    What dharma text is that from?

    no idea, sorry
    Mad Girl's Love Song

    "I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
    I lift my lids and all is born again.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
    And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

    I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
    And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
    Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

    I fancied you'd return the way you said,
    But I grow old and I forget your name.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
    At least when spring comes they roar back again.
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)"

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