Monday, April 07, 2003

Ode to our departed Rug (a sonnet)-

Ye catacomb of filth and ageless dirt
Beneath our feet, the poor untrodden mile
Is here collected in a filthy pile,
And with the woven polyester girt.
No vain attempt to vacuum sucks your weave,
No toe transgresses but by you defiled.
Upon the floor, an undulating wild;
No flat, unbending surface I perceive.
Believe you that your status is secure,
That never will you suffer by the Beat
To be forsaken, tossed into the street
If only that your past had been secure?
Oh, think not that, and soon shall this you learn,
That if not clean or useful, shall you burn.

-nate wazoo

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