November 15, 2016


Shall I Not Compare To The Eagle That Is Dead In Flight,Dead In Transit,Thou Art More Sloth As Indolent Than Thy Nature Seems,Stormy Clouds Shake Thy Bud Afray,And Dunghill Falls,At Thy Beneath,Too Often, Sometimes, The Dusk,Cast Thee,Tardy To Ignore,And Often Sloth Is Dainty Arrow,That Resist To Varnish,And Every Dusk From Dusk,Sometimes Glow And Grow,By Volition,The Art Is Grown Unnerved,And Addiction Fades Not From Subconscious Wills Of The Mortals Nor From The Binges Upon Which It Is Hewn,Nor Sloth Its Sinewy Nor Snub Its Arrows And Rainbows In The Sky,When Tis DecayThou Eateth Deep Tis The Bone Marrow,So Long As Man Could Feel And Work,So Long May It Abide That It Gives Life To The Infest Whereon Sloth Abides,It Is The Stinging Arrow Of The Negligent Abhor Of Time,Its Stormy Winds,Its Bearers Cannot Survive,Hitting Deep Like A Tornado When Barns Are Sloth-Dry ,Silos Are Sloth-dry And Granary-dry,And Every Sower Receives And Reaps A Modicum Of What Is Sown,Shall We Sow Sloth To Reap HayAnd Make Hays ?

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