Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night–Mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
Who thicks man’s blood with cold. (x)
just cootin around on the beach
You know you’ve made an impact on the world when on your 143rd birthday, people throw a party for your statue.
This drunk guy walked up behind me, draped his arm around my shoulder, and started repeating these words:
“Open door, broken window.
Open door, broken window.
Is lady, is lady, is lady.
Is man, is man, is man.
Motherfucker is motherfucker.
Rah puh pum pum”
He would then start laughing, tighten his grip on my shoulder, and begin the poem again. He repeated this process about six times. I was careful to transcribe his words accurately just in case he turned out to be the Shakespeare of wasted, seemingly nonsensical street poets.
(Source: , via justpetergabriel)