March 2012
147 posts
Poem composed in Santa Barbara
The poets talk. They talk a lot. They talk of T.S. Eliot. One is anti. One is pro. How hard they think! How much they know! They’re happy. A cicada sings. We women talk of other things.
~Wendy Cope
collegehumor:
Kid Dunks Himself
He was poor growing up, so he had to use himself as a ball.
deathclaw:
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