The Demise of the English Language: from Geoffrey Chaucer to Donald Trump

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote,
The drochte of March hath perced to the roote,
I’m gonna grab her pussy
Cos she’s a piece of ass.

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To a romantic

We see, we see as he hails a strange bird

In joyful abandon, we hear every word

From broad, distant sphere she falls ever nearer

And into the soul of this brave poet seer

We hear his heart pound as she falls to the ground

And swims in the fountain of kisses and sound

Caught in this moment of bliss and beyond

We hear his sweet Skylark, we hear her sweet song.  

Another sphere

Summer straddles years

Old Winter dies inside

Spring brings in the carolers

Fall’s leaves drop and rise.
Words war on the plains above

Mute as dots on snow

Translated not for earthly love

But strange and distant show.

 

By heart

Perched on tiptoes, filled to the brim,
Then, just in time, the drawing in

Of milky heat and daylight din,

The birches, like old urns, displayed

The awful truth, cracked and crazed,

Of beauty to poem to memory made.