Okay so like I went outside in the snow and there were these trakcs of a cat who ran up behind a mouse and gunched it and I read those tracks and I followed those tracks and there was the cat standing on the edge of the wood with the snow falling and a mouse hanging from her jaws and I JUMPED FOR JOY and and...

And Kittie caught a mousie,
She snitched his prettie tail;
She sniffed him out beneath the snow,
And bounced him like a snail;
She gobbled up his mousie blood,
She crunched his tiny grail!

but poetry is for whiny art-faggot-ass-pirates who chase each other around the rigging wearing no pants and oozing lusty innuendoes with the word paradigm in them from their perfumed lips while singing loud sea chanteys at the same time and getting drunk and falling out of the rigging, landing on the captain who has them impaled on a spike for being wussy.

Not me, I throw houses at pirates, and sink their damn ships before they can fire the first volley, which wouldn't do any good anyway because I'm miles from any ocean! How dare they not wear pants in a public place, and bugger each other in full view of Buckingham Palace!

Okay, okay, get back in your seat, do your lessons, Buckingham Palace is in Rome, the Queen is not being outraged by gladiators or eaten by lions, sit down! Avast, HAR HAR HAR! YARDARM AND TWO OUT BEFORE WICKET! TALLY HO!

Icarus "Fifteen men on a dead man's ass" Damocletian QPM 1