Who will soonest be through with his supper?
The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.
Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay.From the rocks of the river, swinging and chirping over my head, Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush, Lighting on every moment of my life, Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses, Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them.Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed, Let the physician and the priest go home.My head slues round on my neck, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.It is not chaos or death-it is form, union, plan-it is eternal life-it is Happiness.By, walt Whitman, i celebrate myself, hot sex i aften and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last.52 The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania.
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know.Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much?Will you speak before I am gone?I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?Press close bare-bosom'd night-press close magnetic nourishing night!



Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister?
Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!
I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.


[L_RANDNUM-10-999]