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written by: QuasiLiterate

Marks my words son.
All the writers have gone, and took my literacy with them.
Kiss the ground while the words are still warm of print.
Before The King Bill himself rises in shame, a lesser man.
Dare his quill to revise the diction and prose of my speech.
Before he circumvents his tomb in disgust at my breeze of whit.
Where he died a better man in a lesser world.
I did not want to see this. English is a foreign language.

Mark my words daughter.
All the musicians have departed, and took my soul with them.
Too long ago I gave this instrument my age.
And now it's as hallow in sound as the vibrato of the world.
Once the king himself stood on a stage, until his voice broke.
A sound that defined my father's generation, yet he can hear no more.
While my generation's eyes perceive sound more than our ears do.
I do not want to hear this. We've played out the tune.

Look into my eyes lovely.
And see that there is no more.
I cannot speak, I cannot hear.
Yet I live.
Hope for the better.


Wed, Apr 25, 2007 at 5:15AM

epic. reads like a modern day "American Pie" on a broader scale, and with more of a societal twist.

Fri, Apr 27, 2007 at 9:43PM


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