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The Man Who Drooped (Ode) by -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.
Echoes of dung haunt the cloister
And balm my face in shades of prune,
And as each note grows even moister
I pluck my bow to its brownful tune.
Dancing cherubs parp in turn,
Delighting in this swollen scene,
And though my lips may lewdly gurn,
'Tis but to hail my love for thee.
But passion riseth like the rose,
And wilteth in the dying sun
Where naked, now, I dance exposed
And wilt where once the sun had shone.
Suspend each awkward, flailing moment,
And hold them in a flask of shame
That I may drink my own atonement
And relive every droop again.
Then casting off, on seas of grief,
I'll end this folly while I can
For no amount of love's relief
Could bid me turn my ship to land.
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
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Arithmetic Mean: 8.5
Weighted score: 5.941295
Overall Rank: 1395
Posted: May 2, 2008 8:45 AM PDT; Last modified: May 2, 2008 8:45 AM PDT
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Comments:
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Would a dunce have rhymed "cloister" with "moister", or "tune" with "prune"? Yes, yes, I suppose he would. But he would not have rhymed "scene" with "thee", or "sun" with "shone", or "can" with "land". Those are not dunce rhymes, as witnessed by their absence from http://rhymezone.com
You should be ashamed of yourself, Stephen. Partly for your cruelty towards others, but mainly for your horrid physical appearance.
That rhymes with shepherd's purse.
I would be nothing without the aid of the 'zone,
And a truncated cone.