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Aug. 27th, 2005 | 11:28 pm

Inside the the news was no better than without
The airwaves had barely been broken
We stole away from our buried cave
Only to find mad fortune had spoken.

The act was rehearsed
For better or for worse
The audience waited on forgotten parts
The sins of the flesh may in fact weaken us,
even while strengthening the heart.

It leaves me thinking of surprise endings
The kind that don't happen outside books
Where those that are favored by fortune
divine the right answer
Reaching out to them through damnable looks.

I'd hate to be the one to tell you that your days are numbered
I'd love it if I could only stop thinking
That somehow you made it past the sharks to the shoreline
That somehow our ship wasn't still sinking.

But oh, nevermind, let us instead speak of pleasant things.
Let me think of the different ways of loving the sun,
Foolishly frittering life,
with three square meals a day, upon a paid holiday,
and a coy, south islander wife.

When I reach the shore to find my home and
Let no one tresspass to sell or to deceive me
And hang a scarecrow to sing out from his crucifix
And breathe clear at night ever so deeply.

And I'll adjure my scarecrow to keep watch.
He'll burn away predators so fiercly
Endowed with fiery weapons of magic,
Vigilant against those that would steal from
and poison the air with their heresy.

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Comments {7}

Duke of Dawdlers, Earl of Twaddlers

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from: decepticonfetti
date: Aug. 29th, 2005 07:30 pm (UTC)

I doubt it. She's Bobbo's cousin. I don't think the two of you ever met. We've were friends since she first came down from Newark, like, 8 years ago.

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Duke of Dawdlers, Earl of Twaddlers

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from: decepticonfetti
date: Aug. 29th, 2005 07:37 pm (UTC)

...And incidentally, Bob's total opposite: extremely talkative, ebullient, and self-assurred. Still Irish, though, and fucking crazy.

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