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Once upon a court inquiry, while my witness plead sincerely,
Over whether or not he witnessed a murder on a mansion floor,
While I prodded, nearly smacking, suddenly there came a cracking,
As of someone's neck snapping, snapping behind the courtroom door.
"Tis some murderer," I muttered, "whacking behind the courtroom door.
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, we linked the oft dismembered mobsters of a chic September,
Yes, the mob's each dying member spilt their guts upon the floor.
Eagerly I swished espresso on the morn I named the torso,
She who until late fought escrow, clauses, deeds, and more.
A wry and wise defense attorney whose office door had read 'Dior.'
Jobless here for evermore.

And the sulking, sad and witless weeping from each extra witness,
Chilled, fulfilled me, raging 'tween the jury's and the judge's snores.
Yet now to hush my unbelieving mind, standing there conceiving:
"Tis some nameless witless witness bleeding 'hind the courtroom door,
Some late nameless witless witness bleeding 'hind the courtroom door.
This it it, and nothing more."

Lamentably, my legs grew softer, wobbling that I thought of doctors,
"Bailiff," said I, "Such unruly interruptions I deplore,
But the fact is, I was strapping, and so roughly he came smacking,
And so toughly he came whacking, whacking behind the courtroom door,
And sharply you should draw your weapon." - here he threw wide the door -
Hallway there, and nothing more.

Swift unto the jury veering, tender mind within me queering,
Shouting, screaming screams no lawyer ever dared to scream before;
all attendants then awoken, just to hearken bullets broken
through the virgin green and golden tiles of the courthouse floor.
Then I withered, seeing there a flicker of my lost Dior.
A flicker of her and nothing more.

Back unto the jury spurning, judge an inch from court-adjourning,
Soon we heard a thwacking somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "my last witness met his end beyond all fitness,
business brought him to a stiffness statements sworn shall not restore."
There he was and nothing more.

Lurching, shot, out from the gutter, did the drifter enter, stutter,
"Blood I've lost as if I'd shaven, pooling on this stately floor."
Not the least senescence bayed he; laughter flowed from lord and lady;
Though, with life, a damage paid he, drifting in the courtroom door,
Perched upon a pus-filled callus, swaying in the courtroom door,
Perched and spat and nothing more.

Then the entity, blood still piling, forced me into later dialing
Numbers saved to turn the jury's 'innocent' to a 'guilty' score.
"Though your chest is far from graven, you," I said, "The witness craven!
Lastly, him, whose thoughts are saved for those who grace this golden floor.
Name me they who slayed Dior upon the mob's Bostonian shore."
Quoth the craven, "Nevermore."

Much agog as this unseemly, foul-smelling bum extremely
Understated what agreed-to evidence he'd sworn before.
Still, the good and saintly written book had not been rightly smitten
There beneath his grime-caked digits, O, his filthy, vulgar pores.
Word and verse had just escaped his crusted, cratered pores,
With such a name as "Nevermore."

But, the vagrant, grinning phony, at the swinging door spoke only
That one word as if the truth in that one word he did explore.
No more jury then he buttered, no more tiles then he cluttered,
Til I fiercely more than sputtered, "Other aides have died before,
On this floor he shall perish, like the others did before."
Then the tramp said, "Nevermore."

Throttled by the hollow token of a word so worn out, broken,
"Worthless," said I, "what he sputters signifies a rotten core.
Bought by some amoral bastard, hiding here amidst the plaster,
Followed here and shot with blasters, til his lungs one last lie swore,
Killing justice for the virgin whom her parents named Dior
Of 'Never-nevermore.'"

But the craven fell then, smiling, brownish blood at stomach piling.
Straight we stood in shock, the judge, the jury, crowd and more.
Then I, quite without thinking, paced upon the dying, stinking
Man and spat, all without linking any truth with what he swore,
Seeing grit and grim and ghastly gunk, and lies in all he swore,
Bent on croaking, "Nevermore."

There we stood, all dispossessing freehold of his soul's transgressing
To the bowels of fiery lyes and sulfurs, brimstone, molten ore.
Many left, with most resigning, "Fate must work its arch designing,
Lest we take into its twining"; thoughts as engines homeward bore,
Conscience clean and on to dining-thoughts as engines homeward bore.
Never thinking "Nevermore."

I remained, the truth's last censor, doomed by this old truth-dispenser,
Flung by phantom limbs to wrap my arms around the gaping gore.
Retch. I cried, "Our God has bent me, sent his angels down to rend me,
Praise him, praise him, and repent, the end has come for me, Dior!
Laugh, O, laughter ends, repent, the end has come for me, Dior!"
Quoth the craven, "Nevermore."

"Off it!" said I, "Sing of evil! Profits, swill, and pain medieval!
By the law that rules us blind and by the flag we both adore,
By the one with soul unwanted, by the one who fate has taunted,
Tell this room you saw the murder, tell who stole away Dior!
A wry and wise defense attorney whose office door had read 'Dior.'
Quoth the craven, "Nevermore."

"Be that your word of parting, man or beast," I wailed upstarting,
"Get you back into the street, into the gutter's rotting score,
Bleed no black blood as token of the fact your mouth has spoken,
Leave my sanity unbroken! Leave the space under this door!
Take your reek from out my mind, and take your form from off this floor!"
Quoth the craven, "Nevermore."

And the vision of the craven never quitting, still is sitting
On the minds of those who sat farthest from the courtroom door.
And his memory's all the scheming of a devil who is beaming,
And his memory hides the fact that dying on this courthouse floor
The history of my wife's murder, that died upon this courthouse floor,
Shall be known - nevermore.
Anyone who's been following me a spell should know by now I'm a big fan of parody. If you're new and you liked 'The Craven' you should probably check out my 16-Bit Haiku series.

Weird Al has made weekly appearances on my playlists since I was a wee one. I just admire the way simply using a template established by one person can become something ever more complicated and rich in meaning just by changing a few words around.

Ironically, I think my parody of Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" detracts from rich meaning. I've certainly taken out the universal nature of that protagonist's suffering, his existential worry, and his longing to know from death what its terms are, and replaced them with a fairly straight-forward, specific story of a prosecutor trying in vain to extract testimony from a dying witness.

I considered trying to keep the story of the events universal in nature, but I'm happy with how it turned out.

I first wrote The Craven when I was around thirteen or fourteen, which is either thirteen or fourteen years ago now. Many of the passages were either lifted straight from Poe's text (because I couldn't think of other rhymes), or were entirely imaginary, because I wanted to make up my own rhymes. in the updated version you've just read, I've kept in as few of my own rhymes as possible, opting for words rhyming with the words in Poe's piece. I tended toward borrowing straight from The Raven more as I got into the last few stanzas. If you compare my piece with Poe's you'll notice a heavy dose of internal rhyme, and rhyme with words that don't rhyme within the poem itself. In other words, where he said 'bird' I said 'word' even though neither bird nor word go on to rhyme with other things.

This morning, despite a painful head cold, I recorded a reading of The Craven, which I'll make available at one of my music sites:


The sound quality will improve greatly if you download the piece.
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An arachnid needling into nothing;
Thrown rope nestled in NASA's outer space;
A Hindu clarinet player's helper
Ascending an airy, azure ether.
A phalange of "my gawd" (an ice/ash pillar)
After an airborne space craft's absconding,
A moon-landing. Impossible motion,
Mired in unimaginative minds
Meditating on Om, missing the flight.
For once, I think a lengthy explanation would be a deterrent to the piece's enjoyment. But I'll make a few notes.

A special attention was paid, in this piece, to letter use, word use, and sound use. The desire was there to create a piece that would appear beautiful, as a whole, at a glance, even if it went unread.

To this end, I tried out words that have interesting letter arrangements (like azure, Om, gawd), and I tried to construct sentences and stanzas with enough repeating letters as to create a visual unity. The letters in the poem's title, for instance, appear frequently throughout, you'll notice.

The nine ten-beat lines were going to become a rhymeless sonnet, but when I reached the ninth line, I realized the piece was done.

There is a bit of play between faith and science in this piece. I wanted to pay homage to the role faith has played in delivering man from primitive beast to studied explorer of the universe. Throughout much of my youth I relentlessly attacked religion for its obvious failings, but now I have a better historical perspective on mankind, and I've come to see it as a necessary stepping stone from thoughtlessness to thought. Just as capitalism was a necessary (evil) stepping stone for us to advance to a better form of wealth-distribution.

But I wanted to stress that when I poke fun at faith in this piece, I'm not necessarily degrading faith. Specifically, the last line seems to say that faith creates stillness and, by default, stagnation and ignorance. But faith's role, it seems to me, is to prevent the mind from asking questions about the natural world that would confound and stress a being without access to scientific processes. There are bushmen even today who believe the world is flat, for instance.

So when I say their minds are unimaginative, I don't mean that they are uncreative people. I mean that faith acts as a bug net that keeps out the pesky, darting questions that would sting with their stark unanswerableness.
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You'll always come back to me
when the lights in the far hills
are done searching. For, new beds

entice adventurers. Too,
when the lights in the far hills
come home, the homespun dream they

entice adventurers too,
but they can't. (Dream we're neither.
Come home.) The homespun dream they

turn pioneers to homebodies,
but they can't dream we're neither,
our wanderlust fit to turn

pioneers to homebodies.
We've always made love free, so
our wanderlust fit. To

turn ourselves towards our home
we've always made love. Free. So
when the last adventurers

turn themselves toward their homes
in faraway lands, I know,
when the last adventurers

are done searching for new beds
in faraway lands, I know
you'll always come back to me.
Before reading this explanation, do yourself a favour and look up the meaning of the form of a pantoum on wikipedia. It's a complicated poetry form that they've described perfectly there.


Another piece on the theme of polyandry, I wanted this to be the poem I gave Simone on our last anniversary, but I couldn't get past the first two stanzas. I thought about the piece now and again over the months, but certain first draft lines were making the construction of the pantoum extremely vexing. I knew I wanted the first and third lines as they appear here, but, the second and fourth lines needed work, and so the sixth and the eighth lines were torturous, and so on.

A pantoum is a chain that cannot suffer a weak link. That's part of why I love the form, but also a big part of why it's so hard to sit yourself down and crank out the creativity. For this piece to get done I had to force myself not to read my book(s) on my lunch breaks at work, and to not think about anything walking to or from work for a few days. And basically to completely rewrite the piece, starting with the first line.

I hope you agree that it was worth it.

I sure think so. Since I kind of invented a new form of pantoum here.

As I hope you read on Wikipedia, a pantoum is divided into ballad-esque stanzas, and I've changed that into three-line groupings. But I've kept the schema of repeating lines in tact, so in order to keep the poem made up of full three-line groups, the whole piece has to present in multiples of twelve. I don't have a name for this form, but maybe a "Haiku Pantoum" would be fun, or "Dodecapantoum" to echo the dodecatina (the twelve-line variation on the sestina).

Something else that turned out to work really well in this piece, I thought, was what happened between the fourth and fifth stanzas. Every line in the piece has seven syllables in the line, except the first line of the fourth stanza which has eight, and the third line of the fifth stanza, with six syllables.

This was done to balance the equation, but look at the word "turn" which appears, as the beginning and ending word of the fourth, transitory stanza. So, the centre word of the poem, if you will, is the word "turn", and gives the feeling of movement from one half to the next.

In haiku, a turn word or "cutting" word is the word that heralds the separation of the first phase from the second phase of the poem. There's an actual list of words acceptable as cutting/turn words that poets would use skillfully to deepen meaning. How Japanese is it, to have a database of acceptable words to be used for a poetic function?

Anyway, I thought it was neat how the actual word "turn" in my poem took on a similar function, and I submit this "Haiku Pantoum," as it were, for consideration to any other poets in need a good form challenge.

I gave this to Simone sort of retroactively the week before I left for Hamilton to launch my first book, In the Wings, from the Redeemer College University cafeteria (we sold out our first run of 500 copies!). And now it's only one month til our next, seventh anniversary.

Back to the drawing board!
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I've tried to find stones that reflect each of the characters in some way. Though, from that distance, in that saturation, I don't know if that's possible for the rest of you. Nor, even, I. All I can say is that big white one is Gandalf and his tiny pal is Frodo. And I think those three to the left of the gate are Merry, Pippin, and Legolas. The one way off on his own is Boromir. And the one standing befuddled at the gate is Gimli. Which leaves Aragorn and Sam over in the cool kids corner.

I'd like to say that this encompasses the kraken scene, having the water in the foreground there. It would be a lot of fun to dream of how to present, but, I don't know. I'm intimidated to say the least.

If someone speaks friend, I'll do it.
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This one draws more inspiration from the shot in the The Two Towers where Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli approach the pile of slain orcs and goblins and such that Eomer and his Rohirrim left just outside Fangorn forest, believing Merry and Pippin to be amongst the fallen.

Along the scene does occur in the book, I don't recall if there's mention of an orc head on a pike, though the steaming heap of corpses is no doubt present.

I had thought to include a row of trees disappearing to the left, but it seemed like a lot of work if I screwed something else up, so I omitted it. I think it would've messed with the perspective anyway.
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The astronauts had no rear-view, lying vertical,
eyes to instruments affixed, octopoid arms aflight,
moving eerily as one

practiced organism.
Like college-bound teens, they didn't look back,
the mother's faint tears smothered by

the thunder of flaming engines.
Old films and space museums first alerted their minor selves
to the intoxicating blue of the earth's

throbbing albedo.
In the simulator, they swigged digital earthshine,
complex watertanks faking weightlessness --

the sim just wasn't the same.
Belts unbuckled, floating on ballerina feet, a speechless face
in each porthole, no one noticed the captain's

syncopal silence.
His hypoxic brain unbetrayed by gravity, his limp spine
erect, his outstretched hands drifting clouds,

his eyes wide shut.
In his dream: father sat stiffly at breakfast,
the paper clumped in each fist, with

amnesiac headlines.
Long before Jupiter's great red beauty spot, the iron
hearts of stars, the moon's cephalic

sea of tranquility:
an unbuttered crust of bread, a name tag buried in a pocket of debris,
a sexless slave wage single father, snuffed out

at dream's end.
After reading Makoto Yukimura's first three volumes of Planetes, a manga about an astronaut in the future trying to go from being a space debris collector to the pilot on the mission to Jupiter, I was left teeming with inspiration for a number of space-themed poems. The first one that presented a workable rhythm was this one about space-feinting, which, truth be told, doesn't happen in the books. Something similar happens, and it made me wonder, what would that look like if someone feinted from amazement in zero gs.

No one would notice you clicked off.

So, the feinting space captain's mind presents him with a dream about his own 50s dad, a living-dead man, who maybe spent his entire life in a different kind of spacefeint.

Our parents provide for us (if we're lucky), but we don't always notice what they go through to do it. The child gels everything together, trying their best to single things out and to examine them closely, but the process requires an entire childhood (and sometimes an adolescence) to master, if at all. And even at adulthood, our intrepid space explorer is only able to imagine his father's experience abstractly, as presented by a dream, only to be forgotten again.

Against that, I've compared the earth to a mother (how original!) to show the very conscious way the space captain is abandoning his origins. So, we can presume he knows exactly what happened to his mother, and why he was raised by his single father. So now he's doing the leaving, and the abandonment is in his control. Except, when he looks back and sees the earth for its undeniable grandeur and beauty, he can't handle it, he can't bear the thought of dishing back to his origins what his origins dished to him, so his brain makes a feeble attempt to rationalize his motivations.

As for the imagery, I chose to bring up octopuses because I recently learned that they're one of the only species that doesn't evolve the way the rest of the animal kingdom does. I can't explain it as well as Simone could, were she here, but it's pretty crazy. They're basically aliens on earth.

Also, some octopuses have glowy blue rings on their suckers, like the earth.

The albedo is technically the ratio of the reflective property of the earth's surface. So, the amount of light that the earth absorbs, and the amount that it bounces back into space. The ratio is 0.39, according to Vangelis, though I've read differently elsewhere. Anyway, the albedo is not the name for the blue ring that hovers around the earth, but I couldn't find a name for that. If anybody knows what it is, let me know.

Earthshine is the opposite of moonshine, and it's actually a lot more powerful that moonshine, apparently. If you look at a crescent moon when it's on the horizon, you should see a ghostly image appearing on the black of the moon, that'll look like earth, in some way. I've never noticed it, so happy hunting.

Oh, and astronauts may very well have a rear-view, I was just putting that in for thematic effect.

The rest of the terminology should be easy enough to understand. I guess I'll end by drawing attention to the sexual imagery used throughout. I like sexual imagery in general, but I was using it to draw back to the idea of origins.
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with both eyes unfocused/
open my hand

contains the water falling on windows
the distant stars of traffic lights

as far as the eye can see
is in me, because with both eyes unfocused/

open one hand becomes two
now dared to deal

with knowing
I'm see-through

I'm two ghosts pretending to be one man
I'm worried you won't put me back together

see me as whole
see me as falling apart

I'm worried you'll never lose the photo of me
superimposed against the world

pregnant with it
and immortally unimportant
I wrote this one at my brother's one year, when he lived in an apartment overlooking Kingston, Ontario. He and my sister-in-law had gone to bed and I sat gazing over the city passing a hand in front of my face, eyes unfocused, and it occurred to me that optics can tell you you're whole and separate from the world just as fast as it can tell you you're indistinguishable from the world and I wrote this poem to keep from having an episode that the title would suggest I did have.

I've always admired poets who can pull off what's called enjambment, which is where the way the lines are broken up can mangle the interpretation, or lend to grammatical double entendres. I don't attempt it often (and, truthfully, there's not much of it here), but I thought it was appropriate to the message of delineation and fusion.
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Okay, I actually have a bunch of new submissions on the way, but I decided to post my Lord of the Rings gardens as they are made, instead of hoarding them up for an epic series of posts.

The reason for that being that I make a lot of designs that could be LotR designs and turn into other things, not organically, but because I don't want to have to tuck away designs, not when it takes so much work to do one garden.

So I'll settle for storing them away in a special folder. And when it's all done I'll make a big deal, and no one will notice who hasn't already seen them all.

Sound good? Good.

This one is a close up on Bag End with other hobbit holes of the Shire receding back into the distance. It's always difficult to achieve distance in gardens when all my "brush strokes" are the same width. Still, I'm really happy with this one.
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It's the Endocardium As We Know it (And I Feel Fine)

That's great, it starts with a heart rate,
Palpitate arterial veins
My Mitral Valve is unafraid

Eat up a sugarcane, listen to your heart burn,
Lub serves its own needs, dubby serve your own needs,
Speed it up a notch: beat lungs, no, chest,
The bladder makes you fatter with pee bright yellow might
Fire up the wires beating 72 per minute
In a ventricle that's higher at a low-fat site.
Oxygen is coming through the larynx and pharynx
Breathing down your neck.

Beat by beat the quarters strangled, lumped, weathered, stopped.
Look at that fat chain.

Fine, then, uh oh, overflow, masticate the common food,
it won't do to save yourself, serve yourself organic snow peas
listen to your heart beat, dummy with a tummy feeling crummy
fat is quite light. You might have colic, diastolic-jam
bright white light fuzzing out your sight.

It's the endocardium as we know it. (I guess I'm just some bones)
It's the endocardium as we know it. (I guess I'm just some bones)
It's the endocardium as we know it  (I guess I'm just some bones)
and I feel fine.

Six O'clock – me, in OR. Doctor washing in the shower,
Then they learn, it's heartburn, listen to my chest churn
Logarithmic, hemolytic, borborygmic. Antalgic:
Every motion in my gait. Tell me I should lose some weight
Might dismantle eating habits, chow down, chow down,
Watch me feel crushed, flushed, uh oh,
this means no beer, rack of deer, lemonade, a near year.
A tourniquet, a tourniquet, a tourniquet of twine.
Offer me alternative medicine, a sedative, and I decline.

It's the endocardium as we know it. (I guess I'm just some bones)
It's the endocardium as we know it. (I guess I'm just some bones)
It's the endocardium as we know it (I guess I'm just some bones)
and I feel fine.

The other night I ate some limes, continental breakfast time,
Fountains in my chest chime, last breath: sublime.
"Lay it in," says nurse, driving hearse, "It could be worse.
A birthday party cheesecake heart attack, boom!
He did have colic, diastolic-jam, but we were right. Right?

It's the endocardium as we know it. (I guess I'm just some bones)
It's the endocardium as we know it. (I guess I'm just some bones)
It's the endocardium as we know it (I guess I'm just some bones)
and I feel fine.
See R.E.M. lyrics at end of author\'s notes.

Hear me perform an extremely rough one-take version here: [link]

Hear the original song at YouTube:

I wrote the first few lines of this as a way of helping me study for my anatomy/physiology classes, but it quickly turned into fairly uninformative fun, so I abandoned the project realizing that, unlike other songs I had written for class, this one wouldn\'t help me remember anything.

I picked the project back up when I heard about a challenge here on DevArt this week (at the group PoetryEvolution) to rewrite famous song lyrics. I recorded a very simple, rough, one-take version of my lyrics (with some embarrassing mistakes; but do you think Michael Stipe did it in one take?) that I\'ll post on one of my sites later today.

Here\'s a glossary to help you understand what the song is about.

Endocardium: the thin, smooth membrane that lines the inside of the chambers of the heart and forms the surface of the valves

Palpitate: Beat rapidly, irregularly, or strongly (of the heart)

Arterial veins: So called because it ramifies like an artery (portal vein) or because, while proceeding from the heart like an artery, it contains unoxygenated blood, like a vein (pulmonary artery).

Mitral Valve: also known as the bicuspid valve, this divides the blood coming in from the aorta and the blood getting ready to re-enter the body

Lub and dub: the sounds the heart makes beating

Ventricle: Either of the two lower quadrants of the heart

Larynx: the passage air takes to the lungs which includes the voice cords; also known as the voice box

Pharynx: the cavity behind the nose and mouth connecting with the esophagus and larynx

\"The Quarters\": refers to the four quarters of the heart

Fat Chain: fats come in three basic length types, which helps one determine their value in the body for health. Short chain fats tend to be better for you.

Masticate: ten dollar word for \"chew\"

Colic: severe abdominal pain caused by gas in the intestines (typical in babies)

Diastolic: referring to the period when the heart is filling with blood (as opposed to systolic, which refers to the blood being pumped out)

OR: Operating Room

Hemolytic: relating to the rupture and destruction of red blood cells

Borborygmic: relating to borborygmy, which is the medical term for the gurgling sound a stomach makes

Antalgic: A type of gait (walking style) where the person is limping in order to take pain away from a load-bearing structure (knees, hips, etc.)

Gait: Walking style

Tourniquet: a device stopping the flow of blood to an artery by compressing a limb tightly with a cord or bandage


So I went to school for massage, but the school I went to was multidisciplinary and included a lot of natural health sciences. So I\'m pretty sympathetic to their plight as a result of being deluged by the people and their beliefs. That\'s why this song is critical of allopathic medicine (conventional Western medicine), as well as alternative (or, as we say, integrative) medicine.

And for anybody who might be tricked into believing I can sing It\'s The End Of The World As We Know It, this was indeed partly inspired by the idea that it might help me learn Stipe\'s lyrics, but, alas. My version actually rhymes a lot better than his, and tells an actual story as opposed to his fractured, imagistic, referential approach. So, ironically, I taught myself how to sing my own song, but not theirs.


It\'s the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)
by R.E.M.

That\'s great, it starts with an earthquake,
birds and snakes, an aeroplane
and Lenny Bruce is not afraid.

Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn -
world serves its own needs, dummy serve your own needs.
Feed it off an aux speak, grunt, no, strength,
the Ladder start to clatter with fear fight down height.
Wire in a fire, representing seven games,
and a government for hire at a combat site.
Left of west and coming in a hurry with the furys
breathing down your neck.
Team by team reporters baffled, trumped, tethered cropped.
Look at that low plane.

Fine, then. Uh oh, overflow, population, common food,
but it\'ll do to Save yourself, serve yourself. World serves its own needs,
listen to your heart bleed dummy with the rapture and the revered
and the right, right. You vitriolic, patriotic, slam,
fight, bright light, feeling pretty psyched.

It\'s the end of the world as we know it.
It\'s the end of the world as we know it.
It\'s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

Six o\'clock - TV hour. Don\'t get caught in foreign towers.
Slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn.
Lock it in, uniforming, book burning, blood letting.
Every motive escalate. Automotive incinerate.
Light a candle, light a motive. Step down, step down.
Watch your heel crush, crushed, uh-oh,
this means no fear cavalier. Renegade steer clear!
A tournament, tournament, a tournament of lies.
Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives and I decline.

It\'s the end of the world as we know it. (I guess I\'m not alone)
It\'s the end of the world as we know it. (I guess I\'m not alone)
It\'s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

The other night I dreamt of knives, continental drift divide.
Mountains sit in a line, Leonard Bernstein.
Leonid Brezhnev, Lenny Bruce and Lester Bangs.
Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom!
You symbiotic, patriotic, slam bug net, right? Right.

It\'s the end of the world as we know it. (I guess I\'m not alone)
It\'s the end of the world as we know it. (I guess I\'m not alone)
It\'s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine...
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If there's anyone hungrier than me of this earth, it's Pac-Man.

Yeah, I sort of bilked the design off of Third Eye. But oh well. Will this be the last of my ancient video game references? Probably not. But how the hell am I gonna represent Dig Dug?
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