週一 8月 29, 2005 7:25 pm
Peot
It is an unnatural propensity
To look at the world from knee-level
Yet from the cloud above.
Psychopath they may say,
But this is the path chosen to pass the day
In front of a mirror, a common scene,
One person, practicing psittacism,
Two different farces no one has ever been.
Like a star in the night and a leonine spark in the sodden lair,
This is an age when man wars for peace and from peace seeks war.
Even a sentimental letter has to be exiled, in this age,
Into the very decent corner where one may camouflage
Every word transformed, to gibberish-like avian idiom.
Time is leaving here and there from the very start,
Peots view the tumult of school ground ceased to burn,
----There is nothing we can do.
But when the world served spelling badly, let’s spell it right.
Then some might follow, rename peot, so that
A tinkle of fairy dust grows in the dark,
Then resurrect the memories of this trodden earth, and say
Yes, I am.
Poet
It is an unnartual propnsiety
To look at the wolrd from kene-leevl
Yet from the colud avboe.
Psyphacoth they may say,
But this is the path cheosn to pass the day
In frnot of a mirorr, a cmmoon secne,
One prseon, praicticng psittacism,
Two difrefent facres no one has eevr been.
Lkie a sart in the ngiht and a leinone saprk in the sdoden lair,
Tihs is an age wehn man wars for paece and from paece skees war.
Eevn a stenimtaenl lteter has to be elxied, in tihs age,
Itno the vrey dceent croner wehre one may coamuflage
Eevry wrod tranrmsfoed, to gibberish-like aivan iodim.
Tmie is lveaing hree and trhee from the vrey srtat,
Poets veiw the tmuult of scohol gurond cseaed to brun,
----There is nothing we can do.
But wehn the wrold sveerd slpeling blady, let’s slpel it rhigt.
Tehn smoe mgiht flolow, remnae poet, so taht
A tinkle of fairy dust grows in the dark,
Then resurrect the mmeories of this trodden earth, and say
Yes, I am.
It is an unnatural propensity
To look at the world from knee-level
Yet from the cloud above.
Psychopath they may say,
But this is the path chosen to pass the day
In front of a mirror, a common scene,
One person, practicing psittacism,
Two different farces no one has ever been.
Like a star in the night and a leonine spark in the sodden lair,
This is an age when man wars for peace and from peace seeks war.
Even a sentimental letter has to be exiled, in this age,
Into the very decent corner where one may camouflage
Every word transformed, to gibberish-like avian idiom.
Time is leaving here and there from the very start,
Peots view the tumult of school ground ceased to burn,
----There is nothing we can do.
But when the world served spelling badly, let’s spell it right.
Then some might follow, rename peot, so that
A tinkle of fairy dust grows in the dark,
Then resurrect the memories of this trodden earth, and say
Yes, I am.
Poet
It is an unnartual propnsiety
To look at the wolrd from kene-leevl
Yet from the colud avboe.
Psyphacoth they may say,
But this is the path cheosn to pass the day
In frnot of a mirorr, a cmmoon secne,
One prseon, praicticng psittacism,
Two difrefent facres no one has eevr been.
Lkie a sart in the ngiht and a leinone saprk in the sdoden lair,
Tihs is an age wehn man wars for paece and from paece skees war.
Eevn a stenimtaenl lteter has to be elxied, in tihs age,
Itno the vrey dceent croner wehre one may coamuflage
Eevry wrod tranrmsfoed, to gibberish-like aivan iodim.
Tmie is lveaing hree and trhee from the vrey srtat,
Poets veiw the tmuult of scohol gurond cseaed to brun,
----There is nothing we can do.
But wehn the wrold sveerd slpeling blady, let’s slpel it rhigt.
Tehn smoe mgiht flolow, remnae poet, so taht
A tinkle of fairy dust grows in the dark,
Then resurrect the mmeories of this trodden earth, and say
Yes, I am.
