

A poemA man decided to go out, Despite a mean case of the gout. And when his feet began to swell, He gave a cry, screamed bloody hell. And when the man screamed bloody hell The church’s reverend rang the bell And with the bell came angels singing And hunters, too, for the chance at winging New-wing’d angels wielding swords Sharper than the sharpest words And with these swords the angels cut The canc’rous growths from a sick man’s gut And when the growths dropped to the ground The took the shape of a monst’rous hound A hound with teeth of the whitest white AndA poem


Letter to the EditorTo the Editor,Letter to the Editor
More often than not, I look at my school-based peers (and teachers, to a lesser extent) with the kind of nauseated fascination that one would see on the face of a small child prodding a road-killed cat with a short stick.
Before I say anything of import, allow me first to make it clear that I hold no real grudges against any particular members of the student body (Lamp staff or no), and expect none to be held against me. I’m merely exercising my right to send an irate letter to my school paper for them to butcher for the sake of brevity, if they deem it suitable for publication at all. I don’t think I
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I firmly believe that the novel "Inquilibrium: Behind the Curtain of Life" I'm writing for 4 years now is going to be one of the most life-transforming, hope-giving, insight-bearing book you'll ever read. All I ask of you is to remember me and its title.
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