Absolut nici o poezie, dar chiar nici una... sa ma ierte Poe, dar nici una nu transmite la fel de mult ca doua randuri scrise de un vechi prieten, pe care le intelegi si le lasi sa te inunde cu orice mic sentiment le simtea. Cand citesti o poezie proasta rau si totusi zambesti, pur si simplu trimite cu plugul capacitate de empatie. Asa ca dragi poeti clasici, sunteti voi ok, dar stati in alt cartier.
Schooner
We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas Until we strike soundings in the channel of Old England From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues. Now the first land we made it is called the Deadman Next Ram Head off Plymouth, off Portland the Wight We sailed by Beachy, by Fairlee and Dungeness Till we came abreast of the South Foreland Light We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas Until we strike soundings in the channel of Old England From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues Then the signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor All in the Downs that night for to lie Then it's stand by your stoppers, see clear your shank-painters, Haul all your clew garnets, let tacks and sheets fly We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas Until we strike...