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I am writing this sonnet after lunch. God in heaven I hate these Goddamn things. It's true, I really hate these things a bunch. I sit and think until my head goes ping. Just random stuff is all I can think of. Ross just said that his mom had written his. Writing sonnets does not fit like a glove. I want some pop that is fresh and goes "fiz." Pleas be over, I want this to be done. It is not over yet now I'm hopeful. Writing sonnets aren't really very fun. In fact this torture is really awful. Two lines are left and will end in a blah. Last line and as said, blah blah blah blah blah.

media type="file" key="Cynical NatureWEB.mov" width="300" height="300"Greg M.

I am at Disney World. I see thousands of people rushing anywhere, everywhere. I perspire as heat rises through my soles worn thin scrambling in my own haste atop Disney's Magic Concrete. A taste of Mountain Dew fills my mouth as I sip the small soda, warm and watery, that banishes the thin film in my mouth and momentarily refreshes me. Smells of food, diapers ,and sweat run rampant in the sun's silent rays. The sounds of infant's cries add to the crescendo of voices yelling to be heard above the tumult of the various rides in which a whole new section of this grand opera now reaches. Adding to the highest of symphonies, one instrument in the most beautiful overture that reigns supreme above all others. Some hear it. Some don't. This remarkable stream of never ending music falls on many a deaf ear. The song? The oratorio of life.

The building sits Like a white tiger.

It waits and watches over its own with sharp claws at the ready just in case of harm.

Whosever room this is should be ashamed! His shirt is on the TV. His jacket lies in a little ball, And his underwear is covered in spilt pop for the whole world to see. There is a muddy stick in the window, A green blob provides a curious feeling. The door is almost on the floor, And his shorts are stuck to the ceiling. His boots are piled in the closet, His socks are on the banister. His hat is behind the bed, And the mouse in his room is his cat’s banisher. Whosever room this is should be ashamed! Zoe or Al or Mr. T or – Huh? You say it’s mine? Oh, damn, I knew it looked familiar!

The seniors are leaving Atlantic High—they’ll never be back Atlantic High They’ll no longer back you, we all yell “Bunck you! “ For we are the best in the land Ha Ha! You were the blockade Atlantic High, We smashed right through you Atlantic High We are our own protectors, So don’t give us a hug and don’t kiss us good bye, we are leaving Atlantic High S-E-N-I-O-R-S Seniors!!

The cat came down the walk, The kitty knew I saw. He tried to catch a mocking bird, And then he licked his paw.

And then he took a drink, He lapped a nearby bowl And then he dragged the bird away, And ate the birdy whole.