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There once was a man named Jones. He flew a flag of skull and crossbones. Then along came Pan. Who took his hand. And now it's a hook that he owns.
Hear me, oh cruel gods of Olympus, for one of your own is fading. Pan is dying, oh our beloved Pan is dying. "Great Pan is dead!" Thamus yells. Alas, the news is only greeted
While the world splits meAnd everythingIn twos,The only option that fits meI'm not allowed to choose.When I tuck up my hairIt's not to impress you.So don't tell me what I should wear.
The following poem is an Elizabethan sonnet. Since I was young I looked up to the stars. The second to the right my eyes did meet. And though the twinkling speck seemed very far
Hidden away at the end or more often just omitted not out of hate, but of ignorance. What could A stand for but Allies, anyway? Purposeful perpetuation of an imperfect initialism