What if poets had been in a hurry to go eat? Or make a tee time? Or pick up a sick kid from elementary school? How might their verse have been worse?
Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though
He will not mind me stopping by
If I bring whiskey, and the money I owe.
He might just want to drink hot joe!
(I sure could use a biscuit, bro.)
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, I turned around and went on home.
I’ve never been good at making decisions.
I don’t think.
But I could be wrong.
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Was almost named Scorn Jr.
Take me out to the ballgame
Take me out to the crowd
On second thought, I’m already here
And it’s the seventh inning.
So never mind.
Out out brief candle!
Curse against the dying of the light!
Do not go quietly into that good night.
Curse the dying of th…
Wait!, and Hark!, even.
I just need to replace the batteries;
For a second there I thought I was dying! –
Joke’s on me!
Roses are …
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day;
But the sale at Belk
So we really should hurry.
Grab your keys and the checkbook.
Come live with me and be my love
And we will all the pleasures prove
Or I could come and live with you
If you will only help me move.
Do you own a truck?
To B, or not to B.
That is the question,
Since he really made a C.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
Suddenly there came a growling, from the pit of my embowling
And it sent me quickly howling toward the ’frigerator door.
“Just a sandwich, nothing more.”
But I caved, went to the store,
And ate Blue Bell — evermore.
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