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There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
by Shel Silverstein
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
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That was very funny, but he’s past help.
https://mobile.twitter.com/ontarioisproud/status/966413174424584192/video/1
Megyn’s got nothing on him. I rest my case.
https://youtu.be/wgX-RQZpJZk
.308
North America’s finest, a community organizer and now an Indian dancer.
There’s no hope for him ever finding his balls, but his condition does have a cure!
We’d have to hurry, as the practicioners that administer the cure are dwindling rapidly (President Trump is driving them out,) but there are still a few around the badlands of Iraq and Syria: they’re known as ISIS.
The cure is a simple one, all it requires is for Justin to lose his head; it’s not like he has any use for it anyway, and he’d look even better- and sound much more sensible!- without it. So off you go, Justin, to your happy beheading! If you ask nicely, I’m sure they’ll give you a certificate!
If they can just vote him out next election, then all of Canadia will find its testicles, descending as it were, from nowhere. if not, Balless they shall ever be.
BEHEADING’S Okay…. but I was sort of hoping we could get him to wear a hat made of pink mist instead.
If I look REAL HARD, I think I can find him my lucky bottlecap.
He is so offputtingly girlish. Oh my, no. And yet so confident and at ease in himself.
Sic transit gloria mundi. Such ridiculous people in positions of power at a time when sobriety is essential. Dance clown, dance.
Soak him in brine and brown sugar, and put him in the smokehouse.
A month oughta do.