Wednesday, 28 April 2010


The lord lives in a little house,
a small, ramshackle hovel
barely fit for rats.
The roof sags,
the rain leaks in.
The windows are grimy, cracked;
the wind whistles through them.
The door hangs on one struggling hinge.
The cellar is dank and cold;
the floor dusty. It creaks and groans.

And out of this house,
he composes such wonders
as would change the world.

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