Did you know that when praying, a man ought to expose his glans unto the Lord God, whereas a woman should cover her shame? Observe... 1 Corinthians, Chapter 11, Verse 7 "For a man indeed ought not to cover [his] head, forasmuch as he is the image and glory of God: but the woman is the glory of the man." 1 Corinthians, Chapter 11, Verse 13 "Judge in yourselves: is it comely that a woman pray unto God uncovered?" And did you also know that it is shameful for a man to grow his hair long? Observe... 1 Corinthians, Chapter 11, Verse 14 "Doth not even nature itself teach you, that, if a man have long hair, it is a shame unto him?"

Only If You Paint Your Toes In Rainbow Colours!

The DOVE of PEACE sure is a bitch, ain't it?

One morn I woke up to find a small pouch deposited beneath my pillow. However, it was not empty: it was quite, quite full.

More to the point, I think, is the peerless pleasure of an evening stroll on Jesus Green, smoking a good pipe, delighting in the smell of the air and the trees, and watching the smoke lazily curl up into the air to mingle with the uneducated smoke from the chest-nut vendors' stands. I remember one autumn when I was escorting the Captain's daughter, as she was then, to the boat-houses one fine evening, when a crudely-dressed vagrant began to skilfully gamboll and whistle a lewd tune in front of us. Quick as a flash, I seized a handful of hot coals from a chest-nut stove and flung them against the peasant's rudimentary tunic, which I now saw to be made of oil paintings and straw. The wretched fellow burst into flames at once, shrieking and beating himself about the pate with a frenzy. It was at that very moment that I realised I had forgotten to bring old Harrison's pocket-watch with me. I cursed and double cursed myself. Well, you can imagine what happened next, so I shan't bore you with the telling. Suffice it to say: the Trinity breakdancing championships were never the same again!

Weird.

W e l c o m e back, Herr Mage.

Very disturbing.

Forgetfullnes is such a tasty deal.

Are you a friend of Lydia Evelyn?

Very evocative. There's always an old man drinking lager. Railways stations are places of excitement, because they lead to travel and all sorts of possibilities, but also they are dark, cold, wet and depressing. Oh, and bugger grammar, it's not important.

L10 For you r body, mine does yearn... you r (intentional), if so, an interesting oneness. Hot and horney.

It's so like you to take the noble subject of bowels and turn it into a crude farce. 'Popcorn and pickles' is the aural equivalent of being nudged repeatedly in the ribs. 0.

There's already an extensive commentary on the subject at http://www.poemranker.com/poem-details.jsp?id=75073

This is beyond parody. Even if you drew a thousand ponies with braided tails galloping over a million magic rainbows in space through a waterfall with twelve beautiful secret princesses riding on each pony, and every pony was called "Star Dancer" and had a unicorn horn and wings, and all the princesses and ponies were best friends for ever and ever, and the princesses were also fairies and angels, and called "Lady Emily Charlotte Moonbeam, Queen of SwanSparkle Castle" you still wouldn't have even a billionth of one percent of the monumental, record-breaking concentration of preteen girl fantasy that this poem secretes. Monospaced text doesn't begin to do this poem justice. It should only ever be written on a sparkly folder in purple gel pen, with hearts over all the 'i's, and "Justin Justin Justin Justin Justin" written all across the inside of the folder. For the love of Christ, delete this poem and never post it on the internet again.

A colossal exploration of a trapped guff.

Clever...reminds me of Ogden Nash. Delightful!

What are the first four lines about? They give me a headache.

i guess i'm really not so much into this poem...to me it seems less like poetry and more like a long list of love cliches.

A trifle overdone.