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solidsprite

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Tom Madison Private Eye

In the flickering lamp loomed a sole shadow, crouched in the looming darkness. It loomed like it was up to no good, in fact it was up to no good this looming shadow. It loomed in its dark loomy ally waiting. Waiting for its target. Waiting for its cue to strike. Suddenly a silhouetted figure appeared from around the far corner; it was not looming but rather running head long down the ally. Soon another silhouetted figure came around the corner and chased the first down the ally, the looming shadow waiting for it cue to strike. The first figure drew nearer, the shadow prepared to strike out and leave its looming ways behind it. The first figures hands reach out with predictable intent upon the shadow and threw it to the ground.

The trashcan crashed into the middle of the ally with a loud metallic boom. Tom Madison, his reaction time slowed from a excess of alcohol tripped clumsily over it and landed hard on the damp ally floor. As he picked himself up off the hard ground with precarious balance, Tom could have sworn he heard the trash can mutter “Got him!” but he wasn’t so drunk to forget that trashcans didn’t talk. And continued his pursuit of Slippy the Sneak. The Morgan case had all but gone completely cold, and Slippy showing up in the same juice joint Tom had picked to get hammered at was just pure luck, but Tom never frowned upon luck in absence of skill. In fact luck was a pretty good friend of his most of the time.

Slippy cut across the lamp lit street at a full run, weaving through the traffic without hesitation. Tom took a less impressive route and took the crosswalk at the corner. He’d cut Slippy off up ahead at least he hoped he'd cut him off; Slippy had the talent for defying the expectations of his pursuers. Tom knew this from experience. He had had the displeasure of chasing Slippy before; only four days ago he had been asking a bartend at a titty bar if he had seen a man matching Slippy’s description. The little thief had been there, but made a run for it the moment he saw the polished glint of Tom’s 38 Cal. Revolver. Tom had lost him quick, Slippy also had the talent for squeezing through really small spaces; he squirmed into the air duct in the bathroom and Tom had gone around to the most likely exit outside the strip club. Slippy never came out. Tom found out later that Slippy had doubled back out of the duct and left the club through the front door.

Tom had lost him then, and then he was sober and didn’t have a cracked rib. His chances of catching the thief now were even slimmer. Tom ran lazily down the block, hoping against hope that he’d at least get a glimpse of where Slippy was going before he disappeared down another ally or into another bar or he hopped into a taxi. Tom rounded the corner a little to sharply for one in his condition and careened into a bystander.

“Watch it buddy!” Said the bystander with an oily voice.

“Sorry” Mutter Tom lamely as he cast around for some sight of Slippy. It was a pointless act though, well not completely pointless. Tom’s left hand clasped around the bystander’s right arm and held on tightly. “Where do you think you’re going Slippy?”

“Ah man!” Slippy moaned, “I thought I had you.”

Tom smiled as he led Slippy roughly toward the nearest cab, “No Slippy, this time its the other way around.

To be continued….

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Good stuff. The oh-so-appropriate name, Slippy, reminds me of the frog from StarFox. :) I love detective stories; can't wait for the rest.

Where is that Bosch anyways?

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Bookdust can't run this thread alone. Get to work before I use your brain for a piñata! :) I need ample entertainment while I'm at work. Btw, is anybody willing to tell the stories of my many adventures and battles?

P.S> Why do I hate graphical smileys so? Those should definitely be altered to look like 2HB. Then I might have a change of heart.

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It would be interesting to do writing prompts. Someone gives a scenario, a prompt, and the people get to working on a piece with that basis.

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That's a good idea Mayhem. So why aren't they writing the story about my battles with Ninpoku in Vietnam?

Don't ask me who the Ninpoku are. You're the writers, figure it out. :)

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Enjoy that, if your lucky I'll put up part two.

Stories in Spring I

I. The Story of Joe

Once upon a time,

Very, very long ago,

In the odd city of Coe.

There was a man who met a ho.

To marry the ho,

Joe asked the doe,

To which she simply said “No.”

With the ho,

Joe had a row.

But later she told her pimp, so

Poor young Joe,

Is now very, very low.

II. Ray’s Foray

The very next day,

Joe’s brother Ray,

Heard of his siblings foray.

To make the pimp pay,

For his lethal display,

On his dear brother that past day,

To kill the pimp would Ray.

In the small, cold city of Shay,

On that particularly dark day,

Smack dab in the middle of May,

The angered brother Ray,

Set off to make that pimp pay.

And to make the pimp, in the ground lay.

III. Death of a King

As the pimp was polishing his ring,

Admiring his quality bling.

With some little Miss. Thing,

Caressing his special string.

The brother barged in, raging.

With a pistol in the air, waving.

Caused the pimp’s heart some sinking.

Ray explained the situation screaming.

The player could only respond with pleading.

Ray raised his gun, aiming,

At the pimp, now flailing,

And shot with out hesitating.

IV. The End

The moral of this violent show,

Is never, ever ask a ho,

To spend her life with you so.

For now you indeed know,

The pimp will not be gay.

Just make sure you pay,

For the girl on display,

And be on your way.

Or you’ll get hit by the king,

With his shiny, sparkling ring.

That is the most important thing,

About buying a ho in the spring.

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Here's the beginning of some (huge) thing I'm working on:

Revolution|noituloveR

Foreword

“The End”

The apocalypse turned out to be not as thorough as everyone had hoped. It didn’t come in the form of a terrorist nuclear bomb, wiping out most of the world’s population, leaving the rest leprotic mutants. We weren’t that lucky. It didn’t come in the form of hurricanes or tidal waves, or the coming of a new ice age. No, we didn’t have the patience. It didn’t come in the form of God’s angry fist, pummeling the earth for all of our unforgivable sins. By now, I think most would consider that a deus ex machina: a cheap, improbable resolution. We’ll all a bit more realistic now.

The end of the world, in fact, didn’t end the world. It wasn’t even so kind as to end the miserable lives of its people. No, “The End,” as we call it, pertains to something greater, something much more important: Hope.

Some two hundred years ago or so, the world’s leaders decided that peace was dull and proceeded to bomb the hell out of each other until almost nothing was left. That’s about as deep as our proud history goes. As far as we know. For many: as far as they care to know.

Now the people live in ruins, in the ghostly shadows of some great empire that once was. Completely cut off from the rest of the world, the people depend on their government to sustain them, providing them with food, protection, and drugs—food for nourishment; protection from simple criminal scum, radical terrorists, or anyone (or thing) from outside the city walls; and drugs to keep them healthy. Physically and mentally.

But the drugs aren’t enough for most. Suicide is typical, and very few people have the heart to procreate, to bring innocence into a world that lost its own long ago. If a woman finds herself in such a philosophical quandary, there are drugs for that, too; only those aren’t government-provided. But some still reproduce, whether by choice, or by the moral shackles preventing them to exterminate the miracle growing inside them. Because of this minority, the city of Syd—and perhaps the human race itself—keeps from sizzling out, and lingers on in its black existence.

...But the tides are changing. Unbeknownst to the lowly citizens of Syd, a tempest of Hope is brewing in the bowels of the city, underground, ready to wreak its havoc. The world may be at its bleakest, and the people at their lowest, but the air is ripe…

For revolution.

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I think I like this thread. A lot. Reading material!

(And still, it was the beginning.

They were united in adoradition of mutant infants' art. And so they found themselves, gathered, on a forum, speaking of unicorns in pretty prose. The interenet's children had found a place for all their words.) (Ur, sorry.)

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Here's a bit from something I'm working on. It's a tad lengthy.

He stood there, a cool breeze flowing over his face and lazily weaving through his hair. Calmly leaning on the cold metal rail of the balcony he over looked the city, lights gleaming, illuminating that quiet night. He stared out motionlessly, gazing into the ocean of brightly lit buildings and streaks of color from the cars bellow.

With a weathered face, a mask that looked as if it was hiding a history of violence and pain, a life that was not easily lived, a life of suffering, a life of death, he appeared as though he were waiting. Waiting for a cloud to come down from the dark sky and take him to a higher point of observation. Lips formed what could almost be described as a smile, more like a subtle showing of happiness than a slight mark of excitement.

He was wearing his best suit, bold yet simple, it helped to accentuate his physique, his perfect body. It sat like a sheet over a mattress, falling on his muscles so that anyone could see his build. An athletic man, not just one whom worked out every day of his life, doing quaint work outs here and there, just to keep in shape, but one that used his prowess. Used his strength to hunt and pursue prey, like a lion in the Sahara he worked hard to survive. He had fought for his live, battled for his future, struggled so that someday he would be able to do what he was doing now. Looking out over the jungle, above all the animals, superior than those below, a king, a god.

But he is not a god so with relief in his eyes, he gladly embraced the fact that soon he would be dead. However he knew that he would not be visiting the pearly gates anytime soon. Righteousness had never really been a characteristic portrayed by his persona and his sins were far to brutal and far to many to be forgiven. A thousands saints couldn’t spare enough blessings to save this unfortunate soul. But he was not an evil being, didn’t take pleasure in other’s grief. Never laughed at the less fortunate or committed an unnecessary act of violence. He only did what he was told to do but sadly, his actions had been commanded by demons.

Heaven and hell were no worry for him though and so he had no fears of what the next life would bring. Only content to know that this life would finally be over. For once he would be given the chance to truly rest.

And so he stood there in the chilly night, thinking, contemplating. Not about the next life but this life. The life he had lived. His life that was the reason why he did not fear death as most do but instead helped him to embrace it and thank it for awarding him with the ability to die. A life in which he only had one desire, death.

Grim and unorthodox though it may seem if anyone else was forced to live the life he had it would make perfect sense. It would be clear to see why one man would have such a desire to finally be done. Anyone could understand his reasons if they knew the gauntlet this man had to run. And if they too were to live his life, they would share his desire.

With all these thoughts flying through his mind and with past events rerunning in his eyes he couldn’t help but wonder if he could have chosen a different path, curious as to whether or not he should’ve done things differently, asking himself if he would’ve have chosen the other pill had he known what the one he swallowed would have taken him. And as these thoughts raced by he knew in his heart that he never could have done things differently, that if given the chance he would not do things differently, he had done everything he should have. His life was assigned to a line before he was aware of it. He had a destiny and he did what he did knowing full and well that it was his purpose. It’s what he was put on this world to do. It’s who he is and who he was made to be. He had no regrets and he had no feelings about his past. What he did, he did well and he did knowing that he was not only the right person to do it but also the only person to do it. No one else could go in and come out the way he did because no one else was made from what he is made of: a material that was not forced to be molded, but a substance that could accept to be molded.

Not by any means was he has unhappy with the road he drove on, or else he would have gotten off along time ago, but he was glad to know that he was at the end of the road. It’s not that it was a bumpy ride for him and it’s not that it was a challenging course to navigate, it’s that now that he has finished driving he gets to park in a garage, get out of the car and flip off the lights.

So he waits, waits for someone to come open the garage door and let him in.

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My name is Headroom. You killed my father. Prepare to DIE.

So, the DFAF lived happily ever after while waiting for more news about Brütal Legend (and possibly news about a phlem covered chest octopus that Tim is in an epic battle with). Some even ate french toast while waiting.

To be continued..

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Inigo Montoya!

Seriously. Somebody should update this place. :)

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Max Applesauce and the Mysterious Murder Mystery of Murder! Part 1

by Senor Richard "MechaSlinky" MacDonald del Poopo!

It was a hot and balmy day in lower middle downtown, and Max Applesauce was busy doing Max Applesauce things. He also had a delicious hot dog. Hot dogs are a good source of calcium and nitrochloride, you know. Max Applesauce eats a lot of hot dogs. It makes him beefy. He is able to freely kick over goats at will.

As Max Applesauce strolled merrily down the busy city street, a shot rang out. He wasn't walking in the middle of the street. He was walking on the sidewalk. Anyway, he heard the shot with one or maybe both of his ears and turned in the general direction. Then he heard a scream.

"Oh my God, he's been shot!" screamed either dog crap smeared on a burlap sack or an ungodly hideous woman.

Max Applesauce darted across the street towards the scene of the crime. A man lay on the sidewalk in a pool of blood, but Max Applesauce could not see who it was through the throngs of people fleeing from the vicinity. When Max Applesauce finally arrived at the body, it was too late. He had already been shot. Not a second time. Just once, from that first time.

Max Applesauce knelt down beside the man, scooping him up into his arms. "It's okay. I've got you," Max Applesauce calmly stated. The man said nothing as he stared up at Max Applesauce.

In a flash, Max Applesauce was bounding over people and cars in a valiant effort to get to the hospital. Which he eventually did. However, before Max Applesauce could walk through the doors, the man grabbed his shirt and whispered into his earhole.

"John... J... Ex..."

With one final gasp, the man died in Max Applesauce's big man arms.

"Well well well, what do we have here?" came a voice not at all familiar to Max Applesauce.

Max Applesauce turned around to see a short black man wearing a black suit and some kind of dark hair on the top of his head. The suit was like a business suit or something, not like a gorilla suit or anything silly like that.

"This man has been shot!" Max Applesauce called out.

"By you?" asked the man.

Max Applesauce blinked. "No, by someone else that isn't me."

"I am Detective Harmond Zyboat, and you're going to have to accompany me to the station. The police station!" With that, the young detective reached out his hand to take Max Applesauce's hand, which caused him to drop the corpse. The two men walked hand in hand down the street to the police station.

"I'm innocent!" exclaimed Max Applesauce.

"That's what they all say. Even the innocent ones!"

"But you have to believe me! I was taking him to the hospital. Why would I shoot him and then carry his corpse to the hospital?"

"Because," shot back the hotshot detective, "you want it look like you didn't shoot him by pretending to try to help him after you shot him for reasons unbeknownst to mankind!"

"Oooh. You're good!" The dynamic Max Applesauce suddenly ripped his hand away from the police guy and ran out the police door. "But I'm quicker!"

The brassy Detective Zyboat gave chase to the incredible Max Applesauce in a chase right off this page and into your heart! As Max Applesauce ran through the winding city streets towards the city harbour, Detective Zyboat kept pace with him, yelling for him to stop and be under arrest. But the wild detective was not expecting to crash into a bunch of cardboard boxes with a fruit stand hiding behind them and two guys carrying a big plate of glass right behind the fruit stand! Max Applesauce successfully escaped.

When Max Applesauce reached the harbour, he jumpkicked onto a boat, yelling, "Follow that cab!"

The old briny sea captain turned to him, a fire in his eyes and a song in his heart and a worm in his lower intestines, and said with a wry smile, "Yarrrr, I be Captain Arthur McRuntpunch, and if ye be wantin' ta go ta Zombie Vampire Witch Ghost Island of Skulls de la Muerte, I be the right vessel and me ship be the finest captain fer ye to be selecting at this particular junction in time! Har."

"Sounds good!" Max Applesauce said with a chipper attitude that made all the ladies swoon.

To Be Continued...

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Hmm, Max Applesauce seems to remind me of someone...namely myself. *smiles into the mirror*

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Hey solid what happened to the Bible of Norris? Where are we going with that?

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I think I love this thread. It almost makes me want to type something. But I'm lazy.

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Max Applesauce and the Mysterious Murder Mystery of Murder! Part 2

by Captain Richard "MechaSlinky" MacDonald von JONK JONK Supreme!

And now, Part 2 of Max Applesauce Live at the Hollywood Bowl.

As Max Applesauce and Captain Arthur McRuntpunch and the boat they were on sailed across the mighty seas towards Zombie Vampire Witch Ghost Island of Skulls de la Muerte, the salty sea captain regaled the freaktastical Max Applesauce. Regaled him with tales. Tales of the seas!

"Yarr, there we were, surrounded on all sides by scallywag landlubbers all a-brewin' fer a beatin'. Had to be at least thirty men, and me and me crew were narry more than a half dozen. Suddenly, a dance-mule jumped out of the trees, yellin', 'GYAH I'M A DANCE-MULE!' And that's how I met yer mother, wee lassie," said the captain as he brushed a tear from his crusty blue eye and reached for his bottle of finely aged rum.

Without warning, Max Applesauce leaped to his feet. "Uh oh! Look, it's the police in a fancy action police boat! They're closing in fast from the wicky wicky wicky wild wild west!" he expressed through the production of audible sequences of concatenated sounds of a language.

"PULL OVER TO THE SIDE OF THE OCEAN AND GET OUT OF THE BOAT WITH YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD!" screeched a shrill voice into the big talkie loudie horn on the police boat.

"Arrr a-har har har har harrr!" laughed Captain McRuntpunch, "I've got more than a few tricks up me sleeve. Like three more! Never fear, young whippersnapper. It may not look it, but me ship is just as fine a swimmer under the water as it is on top."

With a wink and a nod, the captain lifted a large sledgehammer over his head and swung it straight down into the deck of the ship. Water began to rush into the boat as the captain furiously smashed chunks of the floor into Oblivion, featuring the voice of Patrick Stewart.

"HEY, FRUITCUPS! I SAYS TO PULL THAT SHIZZY OVER, YO! WE IS THE POLICE AND WE BE GETTIN' SICK OF YO' MALARKY UP IN HERE!"

"Eat barnacles, ye saltblublublublublublublub," the captain retorted as the ship dove deep into the depths of deeply depth-filled waters.

"OH SNAP, SON! DID YOU JUST SEE THAT!? THE BOAT TOTALLY VANISHED LIKE A HAPPY NARWHALE!"

"YOU DON'T HAVE TO SPEAK INTO THE MEGAPHONE. I'M STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO YOU, YOU FAT SMELLY JERK."

Max Applesauce, while quite amazing, was not capable of breathing underwater. He tried desperately to jumpkick the oxygen away from the hydrogen so that he could put it in his lungs, but this was beyond even the crumbelievable Max Applesauce. Before anyone, including me, even knew it, Max Applesauce was unconscious and wet.

Max Applesauce suddenly felt a small kick to the side of his head. As he opened his eyes, his pupils desperately trying to adjust to the intense sunlight pouring down on his face, he could see a dark figure looming over him.

"Welcome, Max Applesauce," said the figure, "Welcome to Zombie Vampire Witch Ghost Island of Skulls de la Muerte. Or Z.V.W.Gism, as the kids like to call it."

To be continued...

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Max Applesauce and the Mysterious Murder Mystery of Murder! Part 3

by Emperor Richard "MechaSlinky" MacDonald del Mop Mop Mop Mop Mop Mop Mop Mop Guano

Max Applesauce began to stir as a sharp pain washed over him, followed by a dull throbbing in the top of his head. He opened his eyes and tried to bring a hand up to them, but they were bound by something.

"Sorry about that, old chap, but I had to knock you out so I could bring you to my mansion without any trouble or punches to my groin," came a voice from the dark figure from the end of Part 2. He was sitting at the far end of a long dining table in a dimly lit but nicely decorated room that smelled a bit like strawberries.

"Hey, I got those crusty eye booger things and they're driving me nuts," Max Applesauce replied.

"Oh, sure thing." The man stood up from his chair, his face entering the light, allowing Max Applesauce to see his face for the first time since the beginning of the story.

"John J. Explosionface!" Max Applesauce exclaimed.

"Yeah, hey. Hold on, let me just undo this," John J. Explosionface said as he came around the table and untied Max Applesauce's right hand.

Max Applesauce brought the freed hand up to his eyes and wiped the gunk from them. He wiped his hand on his pants and then laid it back on the arm rest of the chair. John J. Explosionface retied the rope around the arm rest and Max Applesauce's wrist.

"Is that good?" he asked.

"It was a little tighter before, I think," Max Applesauce replied.

"How about now?"

"Yeah, that seems about right."

"Cool." John J. Explosionface quickly turned and headed back down to the far end of the table.

"Why did you bring me here?" Max Applesauce, uh... asked.

"Hold on! Let me sit down and get ready."

"Sorry."

John J. Explosionface sat down in his chair at the other end of the table. "Alright. Alright, I'm good."

"Ok. Why did you bring me here?"

John J. Explosionface shot to his feet, his face entering the light once again.

"John J. Explosionface!" Max Applesauce exclaimed.

"The one and only! I brought you here, Mr. Max Applesauce, because you have gotten dangerously close to discovering my plan, which I will divulge to you now. You see, you weren't the one who shot that man in the city."

Max Applesauce was shocked. "I wasn't?"

"No," John J. Explosionface stated as a gleeful smile began to emerge. "In fact, you had nothing to do with it. You see, I planted the bullet at a high velocity in the man's body to frame you. Of course, being the compassionate son of a bananaphone you are, you gladly scooped the man up and carried him to the hospital. But little did you realize that the bullet was causing him to bleed to death too fast for you to get to the hospital in time to let the doctors make the bullet stop making him bleed to death! Just as I had planned, the man died right outside the hospital, where I had a friend waiting for you."

"You don't mean..."

"SHUT UP!"

Just then, and not at any other time, Detective Zyboat emerged from the shadows. "That's right, Max Applesauce. Me. You see, I knew you were innocent. But I'm a crooked cop and John J. Explosionface was paying me to arrest you for the murder of that man who died! Of murder!"

"Unfortunately," John J. Explosionface interrupted, "Detective Zyboat here didn't count on you pulling your arm away and then running. He had his police buddies chase you once you got on that boat, but you somehow managed to slip away once again. When I found your body washed up on shore this morning as I was taking my daily frolic, I knew I had to act fast. Anyway, blah blah blah, and now you're here. But, what to do with you," John J. Explosionface wondered out loud.

Detective Zyboat pulled out a gun, aiming it at Max Applesauce. "I say we shoot him." Zyboat suddenly heard the click of a revolver as the cold metal pressed up against the back of his skull.

"Perhaps, detective. But we wouldn't even be here if it weren't for your imcompetence," John J. Explosionface whispered into Zyboat's ear.

"But, I-"

"Goodbye," John J. Explosionface coldly uttered as his finger pulled the trigger. As the shot rang out through the halls of the mansion, Detective Zyboat's lifeless body fell limply to the floor.

"Hey! Not cool!" Max Applesauce yelled.

"No, you're stupid!" retorted John J. Explosionface as he lifted the gun so that it was pointing squarely at Max Applesauce's face. "It's been fun, Max Applesauce, but I'm afraid you've overstayed your welcome."

Suddenly, a scream erupted just outside the window. "DEUS EX MACHINA!!! YYYYAAAAAARRRRR HARRRR HAR HAR HAR HARRRRRRR!!!"

The wall exploded from the force of a large and happy narwhale crashing into the mansion's dining room! John J. Explosionface was crushed under the weight of the mammal fish before he could even scream, and Max Applesauce was somehow pushed aside to safety and also the ropes became untied and he got up onto his feet and didn't have any scratches on him. As the dust settled, Captain Arthur McRuntpunch walked up to Max Applesauce.

"How ye doin', me boy? Hope ye don't mind me crashin' the party. I brought along a date, too, if'n that be alright! Yarrr!"

The two men laughed and then rode the happy narwhale back to the city, and they were best friends forever. 4 months later, Captain McRuntpunch was hit by a train. Fortunately, it was the Soul Train! Funkalicious, brotha!

The end.

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Ode to Res Evil 5.

Bearing down upon lecherous foes,

They're they do ramble, they're they do rove;

Some foreign land-- here I do dwell,

Lost amid the ravenous swell;

Time is short, nearly too late,

How does the die roll, what is my fate?

Excuse the lack of proper structure, poetry is not my forte(hey... that rhymed).

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