He made very little sense.
’T was such a little, little boat
That toddled down the bay!
’T was such a gallant, gallant sea
That beckoned it away!
’T was such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the coast;
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
I muttered “shit, shit, it’s lost!”
Her final draft.
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Only that his frame was rust.
He was a car.
A dead car.
I have very low tolerance.
Pain has an element of blank
Plus a little oxygen
And perhaps some bronze,—
Basically all the chemical elements.
It has no other pieces but those,
In addition to a dram of bile—
And a bit of transcendentalum—
Wait—let me think more a while.
The original (as written by Dickinson).
…and potatoes soften nicely…
…a Jehovah Wittness ‘d like the look of…