Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, because the chemical plant jaundicing the region was ordered by a court to create an alternative, protected footpath for local residents.
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Because I could not stop for Death, I paid $1,600 every month to COBRA until I died of measles, about which the doctors—and not the podcast my mom likes—were correct.
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I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, naked, but the nice thing about working from home is that I can make my own schedule.
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Let us go then, you and I, and your brother and sister, and maybe your aunt, to the school board meeting, to see if we can preserve the two library books that are not the Bible.
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I celebrate myself, and sing myself until my sister tells me I will have to move out or go back on my meds (which I refuse to do, because of Big Pharma and the globalists and one other thing Rogan said that I forget).
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Tyger Tyger, burning bright, because the zoo and the fire department were both defunded, and now all the animals are on fire, even the sharks, which is even more disturbing than it sounds.
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How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: First, there is your executive order saying that it’s illegal not to.
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But still, like dust, I’ll rise, because the first 10 people at the office get an egg.
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Oh, to be in England, or Denmark, or France, or any European nation, really, or Australia or New Zealand (that place sounds really nice), or Argentina, or Thailand; really anywhere except here or Russia.
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Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, it’s Zero Day, says our glorious leader. Families report to your nearest segmentary so that Elon can count and sort you.
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April is the cruelest month, except for May, because that’s when conscriptions are announced, and then it’s June, which is not so great either, because June is when everyone sends their food to Russia. And that is an absolute treat compared to September, when Russia sends us their “excess power,” formerly known as “nuclear waste,” which you would think would be the worst, except November has yet to arrive: that’s when we dig the graves for what’s to come in December—don’t even get me started on December….
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Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? I really don’t have much choice: We barely get spring anymore, and that’s only in the North Pole. I miss birds.
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Do not go gentle into that good night; it’s really not that good anymore. Maybe just stay home with your loved ones, make jam, and pray that Mexico reopens the border.