The English language is, without a doubt,
A singularly mangled kind of tongue.
Though through its tangled boughs we’re stung throughout,
Among a thousand thoroughfares it’s sung.
Young children, not childs, count sheep, not sheeps. Night
Calms naughty minds, while winds alarm fathers,
Whistling, like metal kettle at the height
Of heat, through farms of wheat. What thoughts are theirs?
What wonders wander wearily to mind
As they wind alarm clocks? What fraught despair
Brought on such tortured headaches? Red lakes, mined
From grapes of wrath, group on tablecloths there.
Some minor gripes, no doubt, nothing major.
Linger no longer, singer, languager.
Wed 29 Nov 2006
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