Dreaming of their stupid flowers 
( A sonnet by lonely1@wolfden.org ) 
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At last you are wet... 
Has the storm of righteousness used my hordes? 
Has the victim clutching at a systolic waterfall above the sister dying beside a mysterious wasteland feared my termites? 
It weeps, as hideously as my foul razor. 
Why indeed are termites hostile? 
Long ago he was avenging! 
My hostile spasm struggles , their poison coiling within a terrifying hill slumbers. 
For what reason are those female stormclouds abandoned? 
Suddenly, it all changes; the sinuous dragon rides the desert clutching at a foul oppressor inside the vampire of frustration, excruciatingly. 
Yet look; their misunderstood fool dies. 
Has the dust used those faeries? 
Their houses laugh stamping on their meadow of memory. 
Not what you thought; my figure calls to the werebeast stretching beyond a misunderstood razor... 
I flutter, as violently as the dust of anger falling beneath the eternal saint. 
Why indeed do I drift fitfully hiding behind the grief? 
At last, the desert of righteousness.

Original URL: jbrowse.com (has been defunct for some time)

Wayback Machine Archive. The original Ruby code can be found there as well.