06-29-2014, 02:31 PM
Edit 1 All of the critiques were useful.
We cursed the hoary hairs of age
in bed with father time.
We quaffed our chuck with rosy cheeks,
and marched to Palestine.
We washed these ebbing wars away,
or needled nettles clean,
and it's twenty days off the Horse
with lots of nicotine.
They say we’ll tell no tales in grass
Like snowy boys in spring.
So smoke your Turkish blends my boys,
For mellow David’s sling.
A couple tales of crashing planes
Before a dip and dab.
A tale or two of dragons slain
And back to olive drab.
Where noiseless sounding cannon blasts
are triggered from remotes,
We men who fly the spangled flag
will need our dose of dope.
Oh boy, I posted in this section because the feedback is good in this thread.
Our glory’s waving new and old.
It guides in patterned lines
of red and blue they set above
a blank slate page enshrined.
Our idol is this colored flag
that’s scrawled upon but white.
Our blissful bower’s always ripe,
and hid from winter’s bite.
The noiseless sounding cannon blasts
are soaring from remotes.
Some cheer for mellow David’s sling
through our green colored coats.
We curse the hoary hairs of age
in bed and league with time.
So, hey ho we’ll drink to the day
and miss a later clime.
We’ll wash the ebbing wars away,
or needle nettles clean,
and it's twenty days off the Horse
until nightmares and dreams.
We cursed the hoary hairs of age
in bed with father time.
We quaffed our chuck with rosy cheeks,
and marched to Palestine.
We washed these ebbing wars away,
or needled nettles clean,
and it's twenty days off the Horse
with lots of nicotine.
They say we’ll tell no tales in grass
Like snowy boys in spring.
So smoke your Turkish blends my boys,
For mellow David’s sling.
A couple tales of crashing planes
Before a dip and dab.
A tale or two of dragons slain
And back to olive drab.
Where noiseless sounding cannon blasts
are triggered from remotes,
We men who fly the spangled flag
will need our dose of dope.
Oh boy, I posted in this section because the feedback is good in this thread.
Our glory’s waving new and old.
It guides in patterned lines
of red and blue they set above
a blank slate page enshrined.
Our idol is this colored flag
that’s scrawled upon but white.
Our blissful bower’s always ripe,
and hid from winter’s bite.
The noiseless sounding cannon blasts
are soaring from remotes.
Some cheer for mellow David’s sling
through our green colored coats.
We curse the hoary hairs of age
in bed and league with time.
So, hey ho we’ll drink to the day
and miss a later clime.
We’ll wash the ebbing wars away,
or needle nettles clean,
and it's twenty days off the Horse
until nightmares and dreams.