vatjui
11-02-2002, 12:38 PM
Hey guys I thought this forum was gettin a little too depressed and I've actually been waiting for a time to post this. I hope you have a strong stomach!
To be, or not to be- that is the hockey:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pies and fries of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of burgers,
And by opposing end them. To die- to run-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural spring waters
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die- to run.
To fly- perchance to free-for-all : ay, there's the can!
For in that toilet of death what terds may come
When we have crapped off this mortal coil,
Must give us T.P. There's the loaf
That makes flaming T.P. of so long life.
For who would bear the stench and corns of fecal matter,
Th' oppressor's food, the proud man's McDonald’s,
The grease of beef’s love, the clerks delay,
The insolence of management, and the broken toilets
That patient carrot of th' unworthy steaks,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare buttocks? Who would these drunks beer,
To grunt and sweat under a woozy moon,
But that the dread of something after death-
The undiscover’d pooper scooper, from whose butt
No traveller returns- puzzles the drunken Vatjui,
And makes Bobby rather fart on those who stand behind him
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus fast food does make fishermen of us all,
And thus the town drunk of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pit and deodorant
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action- Soft you now!
The blinding sun -bright, in thy horizons
Be all my dumps rememb'red.
To be, or not to be- that is the hockey:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pies and fries of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of burgers,
And by opposing end them. To die- to run-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural spring waters
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die- to run.
To fly- perchance to free-for-all : ay, there's the can!
For in that toilet of death what terds may come
When we have crapped off this mortal coil,
Must give us T.P. There's the loaf
That makes flaming T.P. of so long life.
For who would bear the stench and corns of fecal matter,
Th' oppressor's food, the proud man's McDonald’s,
The grease of beef’s love, the clerks delay,
The insolence of management, and the broken toilets
That patient carrot of th' unworthy steaks,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare buttocks? Who would these drunks beer,
To grunt and sweat under a woozy moon,
But that the dread of something after death-
The undiscover’d pooper scooper, from whose butt
No traveller returns- puzzles the drunken Vatjui,
And makes Bobby rather fart on those who stand behind him
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus fast food does make fishermen of us all,
And thus the town drunk of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pit and deodorant
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action- Soft you now!
The blinding sun -bright, in thy horizons
Be all my dumps rememb'red.