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London Calling (Free verse) by Bluemonkey
Waste and want walk hand in hand through the dirty streets of London. This daily bread is growning stale; moldy and left to decompose. Cradles turned to coffins in a twisted game of evolution. The sickening smell of cinnamon rising from the baker's grave. The first to aid, the last to fall; saddened in summer's peak. These bearded attempts to fan the flame of a sour fire indeed.

Up the ladder: a rapid expenditure
Down the ladder: Semite to Semite

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Arithmetic Mean: 5.75
Weighted score: 5.089402
Overall Rank: 6271
Posted: July 7, 2005 9:04 AM PDT; Last modified: July 7, 2005 9:04 AM PDT
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Comments:
[7] Bankrupt_Word_Clerk @ 71.130.168.209 | 7-Jul-05/2:31 PM | Reply
ok
[7] Dovina @ 69.175.32.185 | 7-Jul-05/2:40 PM | Reply
Good except for "twisted game of evolution."
[n/a] -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I. @ 195.172.173.12 > Dovina | 29-Jul-05/2:20 AM | Reply
Even the finest Persian carpets must have at least one blemmish, lest they affect a perfection that touches the buttocks of God. And so it is with poetry, the obvious exception being 'The Spaz' by ?-Dave_Mysterious-?
[7] zodiac @ 212.118.19.3 | 10-Jul-05/10:51 PM | Reply
"bearded attempts" is great.
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