chicken beat longed I rolling a fan? Are you a poet? No! Am I a
poet? No! Becuase gods have no pity on those borne when history
began! the truth beyond, we all must yearn Sip, look at the toes of
the mighty and wise, As when you ponder: mow the yard? or iced tea
and a fan? Are you a poet? No! Am I a poet? No! Becuase gods
Alas, my leg of dry gangrene hath fallen off again. Where's the Scotch tape?