Thou still unwashed hole of quietness, Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of sloth and poor maintenance, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Restroom historian, who canst thus express Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A fecal cale most stinking, for our penance: A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What paper legend haunts about thy shell What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
From locals or tourists, or from both, Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In train stations or the bars of Athens City? In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men make turds like these, that maidens What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
loathe?
What tired thighs? What struggles to expel? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and pull-chains? What wild urgency? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
My shit don't stink, but those of others Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sewer; therefore, ye soft pipes, flush on; Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Blot to the sensual rear, and, more slather Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, paper to wipe the naughty bits up front: Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Young man, you ate all that greasy food, you Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst
canst not believe not leave You long to drop those drawers, thy ass to bare; Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Beer drinker, bladder full of piss, Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though pounding on the door yet, do not rave. Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She can't be rushed, thou must postpone thy bliss, She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt she take, she's doing her hair! For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy aperture! that cannot touch Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Our rears, nor ever bide with seat left up; Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy handle, that cannot flush, And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever in disrepair, very Southern Europe; For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy soap! more happy, happy soap! More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever boxed, still to be enjoy’d, For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever pristine, and forever young; For ever panting, and for ever young;
All janitors slumber far, away from hope, All breathing human passion far above,
They left a bathroom fit to be destroy’d, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
It burns nostrils, and nauseates the tongue. A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who is coming to this orifice? Who are these coming to the sacrifice? Ate what green apples, O mysterious feast, To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Leavest thou that Hershey. smelling to the skies, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all your silken flanks with panties undrest? And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little brown by river of pee pour, What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built of faeces sit-and-dwell, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Was emptied by this folk this pee-yoo morn? Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little brown, thy stench for evermore And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will haunt me; and not a soul to tell Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why I refuse to ever here return. Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
Oh Attic shape! Clay hole with flanking O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
footprint!
Or marble, where men and maidens oversquat Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With travel kleenex and the wadded newsprint With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, doth tease us to the thought Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
Preferring even seats of Cold Porcelaine! As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall here generate their waste When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain in mist and others' woe Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, no friend to man, to whom Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
thou sayst
Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty, that’s all fine, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
But when ye gotta go, ye gotta go. Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
-John Keats
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