Satoma Asadgamaya

In Memory

Migrated Datasets


Saturday, July 30, 2005

Some F***ing Poetry, This

It's f***ing eleven thirty at night
Yet there's no f***ing end in sight.
Against this machine I'll f***ing fight.
But I still won't get it f***ing right.
Such is its f***ing overbearing might.

What am I doing, I've no f***ing clue.
The f***ing machine says False, it says True.
And also f***ing beats me black and blue.
What the f*** am I supposed to do?
Except hold my head and f***ing rue.

Me, alive, this machine will f***ing flay.
Let me just f***ing run away.
And f***ing live to fight another day.
On my bed, it's time to f***ing lay.
But what will these people f***ing say?

Maybe something like: "You f***ing wait.
Or else we will f***ing escalate.
We'll rat to the devil f***ing incarnate."
F***ing expletives seems to be in spate.
But know what, getting f***ed ain't my fate.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

mental baba 2:08 PM
baba ka katora |