A Bad Poetry Program That's Read Robert Frost's Story And Tries To Write An Ode To A Tin And Obama's Win
In the house all one has are crushed things
Like leaves and sad soil and in streets women take
A treading we've to make two miles a day
And only a cat frolicking can give a pause to: blue-
Velvet couch, you're so comfortably on; hers:
The long stretched damp gravel; she goes nowhere-
I wear an eye to see a nowhereness* of some kind
That is vivid. The eyes talkative. Flocks of pilgrims aim
Arrows at its grave but it's still to make a deliver despite
Wool scrapings and branches picked out from trees
The heights of me. In it maybe a piece of rye cookie.
My sling's got nothing but cloth. Even if it's dawn
Her trying to make sense's full like an unopened can
*This is that. They are their
Reason my conjunctive must be blurred.
Cup of rice, hair plucked out from a human leg,
Armed kindred: I will fold over this paper
And fan about your head. There is nothing here
We will hold dear. Fix the eyes and this very
Atmosphere you'll see but leave behind
When things of this degree give you a sign
That we'd uproot that that they'll recruit
With the seven simple codes the skin needs
To reboot a black democracy although, doubtful, surely,
There'd still be much better ways to shun the free.
Like leaves and sad soil and in streets women take
A treading we've to make two miles a day
And only a cat frolicking can give a pause to: blue-
Velvet couch, you're so comfortably on; hers:
The long stretched damp gravel; she goes nowhere-
I wear an eye to see a nowhereness* of some kind
That is vivid. The eyes talkative. Flocks of pilgrims aim
Arrows at its grave but it's still to make a deliver despite
Wool scrapings and branches picked out from trees
The heights of me. In it maybe a piece of rye cookie.
My sling's got nothing but cloth. Even if it's dawn
Her trying to make sense's full like an unopened can
*This is that. They are their
Reason my conjunctive must be blurred.
Cup of rice, hair plucked out from a human leg,
Armed kindred: I will fold over this paper
And fan about your head. There is nothing here
We will hold dear. Fix the eyes and this very
Atmosphere you'll see but leave behind
When things of this degree give you a sign
That we'd uproot that that they'll recruit
With the seven simple codes the skin needs
To reboot a black democracy although, doubtful, surely,
There'd still be much better ways to shun the free.
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