From: (Dawn Whiteside)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: REPOST: she may be exciting but oh so fickle and devious
Date: 1 Dec 2000 19:42:33 GMT
Organization: telepathic empaths of pleasure
Lines: 40
Message-ID: <908uv9$ig0$>
Summary: first posted 18 august 1993
X-Newsreader: trn 4.0-test66 (4 June 1998)

She taunted me with promises of alliterative iambic pentameter.  Fool
that I was, I stepped into the maze and was quickly trapped:  integrity
above, writer's block below and mirrored walls all round.  I begged for
such a ghost as I had been to the English in a year gone by but none

In a fit of despair I smashed the mirrors and flung the shards to the
floor.  The tale then wove itself and I ceased cursing the crisp one
for his haunting seed.


Gone, gone, they are gone.

The big ones still wander, hairy things with sharp knives pass
through.  They ask for pretties and I have to refuse 'em.

One of 'em cut the tip off my ear.  Oh, and he et it.  Woe,
little me, eaten alive by giants passing through.

Have to find 'em and move 'em.  Find the bright shining ones,
make 'em stay.  Maybe if they come back they cry for poor little

Such a crying.  Tears roll down to the dust, covered in grime.

I shine 'em, polish so bright they hurts to look at.  Take
silver, make a cage.  Capture the sadness, make a pretty.

Pretties I can sell.  Big ones have plenty of meat and skins and
coin to give me for pretties.  Maybe they don't hurt me with
their sharp cold knives.

Must find the cherub-him, the shining things.  Chain 'em with
iron to keep 'em from flying.  Speak at 'em tear-making words.

If they cry hard, I can dance on both feet.

But nobody cries anymore.  -- The Elder Dan (clearly crisper)