At farnley park cricket ground there's a sycamore tree. And it stands thirty feet inside the boundary. I think that someone slapped a preservation order on the tree.
Traumatized the blood is still flowing. Pressurized agent killing pain. Paralyzed watching every moment. The deicide is forming in the shadow of the brain.
It doesn't matter how rich or poor we are. Doesn't matter what sex or species we are. Doesn't matter with which nation we associate. Doesn't matter what politics we love or hate.
Just when you figured it out someone lets you down. Who'll make all the wrong decisions when the judge is up for trial?. No-one has the cure for all our daily hurts.
One last taxi ride before we die. 'This is destiny, she cried. Ride so carelessly around the avenues. Watch the lights, the fairy lights. And all at once a thousand conversations.
Looking outside. Through the frosty window. We know something's behind gingerbread houses. The lie the game that holds us until. The ones that hide are done making candy coffins.
I accept, I accept, I accept. I'll be gonna. I accept, I accept, I accept, I, I accept. . We're the ladies for compassionate lynching. We fight for all the things we believe.
a perfect match. incorporeal design. pieces fit. string together warning sign. . in the distance. coming into form. netherworld symmetry. a new arrangement born.
Come out of our corners. Keep moving, keep changing, start working together. We can change this world by changing ourselves. Make our hands one hand. Resist and realize.
Closer darling. we're the dying the kind. lucid, feel me. touch where I am blind. In the shadow that you make. In the serpent that you wake. Says the bell of every tower.
By building up the means for war, we thus preserve the peace. Such bullshit will prepare us for invasion from the east. And meanwhile, they're carving up the land.
Twelve stitches in sixteen rows. Two inches overpacking on number ten needles. Cast one hundred twenty one stitches. And knit one, purl one, repeat to the end.
There's a hole in your knickers, dear Calvin, dear Calvin. There's a hole in your knickers, dear Calvin, a hole. . {Now let's see what happens with ba ba black sheep.
Sometimes when I'm feeling lonely. I just want some arms around me. It doesn't matter how he walks. It doesn't matter how he talks. It doesn't matter if he's pretty.
Are you sitting comfortably?. Then I'll begin. The Story Of Kinnochio. The man who ran the other party pondered the size of his nose. A man who pleaded for leadership and groveled more than most.
There's entertainment. There's politics. There's popular culture. There's dialectics. But never the twain shall meet. Never the twain shall meet. This is a myth, propagated by the bourgeois wordsmiths.
The weekend booze-up, out with your mates. To the Indian restaurant--open til late. Mugs out of nightclubs, hungry and cold. Last chance for action before they stagger home.
The more the world is changing. The more it stays the same. Life is full of small surprises. It's a never ending game. If nothing is impossible. Will you believe your eyes.