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Or a conversation with William Blake.
Ghost of William Blake: Wooooooh!
Smokingboot: Wooooh?
Ghost of William Blake: WooooOooooooOoooh. I am here to haunt thee, faithless mortal, for you have me sore offended.
Smokingboot: Er...(tries to think of something clever. Fails) I'm sorry.
Ghost of William Blake: Sorry bollocks thou backsliding slattern. Didst thou not swear to thyself never to delete or edit that which tripped out of thy brain and onto this page?
Smokingboot: Ah. Well. Yes. To a certain extent...
Ghost of William Blake: Never didst thou delete the cliches of Southampton's bald-pated battyboy I notice. And wet Wordsworth, numpty of the lakes, hath also been safe from the iniquities of thy pen. Even the lyrics of such hapless unnotables as Shriekback and the Waterboys have hidden safe in this junkpile of journalese. The only post other than mine thou hast deleted has been that overtly gynie one in which thou didst embarrass thyself. Yay, thou hast pitched my work in the same category as thine uterine mewings. WooooooOOOOOOooohh!
Smokingboot: Sorry Will, it just sounded a bit miserable and odd...
Ghost of William Blake: 'Piper, pipe my songs to hear!'
Smokingboot: Eh?
Ghost of William Blake: Thou art a crap bard. At least bung down one of my songs of innocence you pointless ween.
Smokingboot: But they're a bit...well...twee, don't you think?
Ghost (soft and ominous) I can stay here all night you know. Wooooooooooooooooooooh.
Smokingboot: Allright, all right. Here we go.
Because I am deeply sad and feel as though I am personally insulting certain dead poets if I don't do this, here comes Blake's 'A POISON TREE.' Again.
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I water'd it with fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Til it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole;
In the morning, glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.
- Songs of Experience
Smokingboot: Satisfied Will?
Ghost of William Blake: Where are my royalties?
Ghost of William Blake: Wooooooh!
Smokingboot: Wooooh?
Ghost of William Blake: WooooOooooooOoooh. I am here to haunt thee, faithless mortal, for you have me sore offended.
Smokingboot: Er...(tries to think of something clever. Fails) I'm sorry.
Ghost of William Blake: Sorry bollocks thou backsliding slattern. Didst thou not swear to thyself never to delete or edit that which tripped out of thy brain and onto this page?
Smokingboot: Ah. Well. Yes. To a certain extent...
Ghost of William Blake: Never didst thou delete the cliches of Southampton's bald-pated battyboy I notice. And wet Wordsworth, numpty of the lakes, hath also been safe from the iniquities of thy pen. Even the lyrics of such hapless unnotables as Shriekback and the Waterboys have hidden safe in this junkpile of journalese. The only post other than mine thou hast deleted has been that overtly gynie one in which thou didst embarrass thyself. Yay, thou hast pitched my work in the same category as thine uterine mewings. WooooooOOOOOOooohh!
Smokingboot: Sorry Will, it just sounded a bit miserable and odd...
Ghost of William Blake: 'Piper, pipe my songs to hear!'
Smokingboot: Eh?
Ghost of William Blake: Thou art a crap bard. At least bung down one of my songs of innocence you pointless ween.
Smokingboot: But they're a bit...well...twee, don't you think?
Ghost (soft and ominous) I can stay here all night you know. Wooooooooooooooooooooh.
Smokingboot: Allright, all right. Here we go.
Because I am deeply sad and feel as though I am personally insulting certain dead poets if I don't do this, here comes Blake's 'A POISON TREE.' Again.
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I water'd it with fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Til it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole;
In the morning, glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.
- Songs of Experience
Smokingboot: Satisfied Will?
Ghost of William Blake: Where are my royalties?
Incredible!
Date: 2004-05-06 11:42 pm (UTC)I love you very much.
Re: Incredible!
Date: 2004-05-07 03:55 am (UTC)...and of course, I love you ever so much xxx :-)
no subject
Date: 2004-05-07 01:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-07 01:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-07 04:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-07 04:29 am (UTC)And since I'm pushing my luck anyway, can we get more of spider stories please.
Gray :)
The truth about dead poets
Date: 2004-05-10 01:10 am (UTC)Re Spider stories, well, I've been working on it and I'm not entirely happy with the result. I would be very interested in your feedback, and I'll post bits and pieces as soon as I've got it into some kind of shape/ can work up the nerve!