the kids don’t stand a chance, they’re all diplomats’ sons.
walcott! i don’t even know who you are! go tell someone who kwassa kwassa!
i stand corrected, the real poet between you two is certainly not you.
one (blake’s got a new face), two (donne’s got a new conceit), three (herbert’s got a new wing), four (never fail your metaphysicals)!
see you on campus, bryn. you too, mawr.
M79 is a bar in new york, jurusan senen-rawasari.
cape cod kwassa kwassa vs. cape of good hope alay alay.
a-punk is strolling down the streets of lancashire, a b-52 in the back of his mind.
oxford comma, cambridge semicolon, yale period, harvard exclamation, upenn full colon, uni of east anglia square brackets, (p)et(er) cetera.
me gonna hang meself off the mansard roof of your creaking heart.
in the realm of mythological figures, my love for you is a giant.
i think ur a contra, prove me wrong, my sandinista love.
no worries on giving up the gun, just don’t give up on me.
do not sleep with your close cousins, cousin ed!
run, ran, rain, ruin.
taxi cab, ain’t that redundant? i guess. so is you beautiful.
the southern twang of your california english, the which is noted sorry to say of your jakarta patois.
i need a holiday from your vampiric weekend bender, a half-time break from your psychotic faux pas.
look at the white sky up above, has god run out of blue, grey, a touch of blood red for when you left me?
horchata, ayatollah, tegucigalpa: none more psychotic than you, naked, sans balaclava.
