The King ( A sonnet by Brad WyrdWulff ) ----=-==-====-==-=---- Has my bat attacked the magyckal stormclouds? My demons twirl, ecstatically. Has my razor hated my hellish people? A cold sand is as gothyck as the razors. Their eyes plot pointlessly, agonizingly so soon. Those wet fireflies roam wildly. Wander smilingly, slumber cowering before my dragon! But somehow my brother of grief struggles, hideously. Did I still seethe far beyond the loneliness? An orgasmic mountain struggles , and yet the thoughts arise clutching at the serpent coiling within a all-knowing rock far above the mountain. Before Man it was torn apart! My mountain rages, as thunderously as their mountain stamping on a primitive waterfall! In the days of yore you were as gothyck as a formless lover , yet at last she is healed. The priestess of memory far above the rainbow of understanding is vicious... You struggle. Struggle at last.
Original URL: jbrowse.com (has been defunct for some time)
Wayback Machine Archive. The original Ruby code can be found there as well.