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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 12-June 21:50:05 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 144869
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Ringleader
[time] => 2008-09-02 02:43:40
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => No more frigid morns This is the joy you could never forge These are the High Republic’s horns For feasts too rarefied to gorge And when you bewail the king Whose features seem to be his peers’ Amplified within this cohort-ring Their countenances pioneers He ventures ever on West With avarice in reddest hair And longest nose at the behest Of snorting and sniveling to scare This is the class of joy you sneak And drench sadness in warm exchange The jokes chastened, but not unique And out of tundra’s icy range Your riddled fingers look to steal The hearts of others warm-encased In atmosphere convivial With the punch and punchlines laced Make up for every trauma, dearth The squalid with the right to squander Huddle up by the sizzling hearth The invalid who lives to ponder [comments] => 1 [counter] => 168 [topic] => 73 [informant] => screwge [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => abstract )
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