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To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. -The Worthily Beloved William Shakespeare

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Lusted famed

Lustfully, the eyes do swivel closer,
for compellingly some marvel has beemed,
cajoling so to, its triumph, bolster,
securing the eyes so its flaws are cleaned.

For when does the famed bear blemishes,
but never when does it live for lone lust,
and fame never shall permit skirmishes
lest its utter essence but melt or burst.

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