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Just passing throughThere happened one day, with tumult and fuss
A large group of people had boarded a bus
Each one with their parcel and bag at one hand
And it happened that in that small band
I managed to spot a few interesting fellows
Whose laughs, scoffs, and sometimes low bellows
Intrigued me to listen to tiny bits
Of their conversations and exchanges of wit.
Though they may or may not have approved of this measure
Im happy to say that I had the pleasure
Of meeting a couple of right round good chaps
Some laden with backpacks or bags on their laps.
While some werent outright and made downward glances
Im sure that even the best chances
Of finding someone decent on such a transition
Is relatively fair, especially in my position.
In the first seat ahead sat a woman with child
Whose eyes seemed to be tensed up and riled.
Her hair was dark, unkempt, in her face
Though still in anger, she was in the embrace
Of a tall, light haired man, seated just to her right,
And while he smiled, both tr
Slacking slackerGive to the rich and steal from the poor. It sounds like such an awful phrase when the person listening to it is reasonably wealthy, but when youre running low on income, you truly wish that money would just be dropped in your lab without any catch to it. People think that this is impossible or illogical, but what if thats not necessarily true? It may not be in cold hard cash right in your hands, but in your tax balance.
Barrack Obama is proposing that, if elected, taxes should differ from those with large incomes, and smaller ones. Those making more than $250,000 yearly would get a far greater cut from their paychecks as opposed to those who would be considered middle to lower-middle class. As for the lowest part of the bracket, tax cuts are almost
Ok, this is seriously not working. I have way too little information to be able to attempt to make a rough draft. I have to kee
The lemonade incidentIf someone was to say "Why so serious" then Batman's The Dark Night would be the first thought on everyone's mind. Or if they were to shout "Adrian" dramatic pose it would be Rocky, "You dirty rat" James Cagney, and so on. But when "Of course it's sticky. It's lemonade" is said, all eyes in my family head in my direction followed with a very large smile.
It's Sunday after church. My dad, older sister Jennifer, and I are crowded elbow to elbow, knee to knee in the blue carpeted seat of our Suburban. Though crammed to the brim with things my dad is loading in the back, the thing is still a tank of a car. We bounce along uncomfortably as we come down the almost never-ending road home. Shimmering cars line the road like precious gems at the Chevy dealership, the looming grey building watching over them in an attempt to keep theives at bay.
Suddenly I wriggle free of the Russell sand
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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