Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee;
Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my *****,
To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desart were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
*** be my queen, *** be my queen.

Money is a **** producer, who mascarades as a professional film producer, promising fame and fortune to young girls in LA.

Money exploits us all, telling us to cry on his **** as he forces it down each of our throats.

MMM

Money talks its valuable poetry, cha ching as we take the money shot, the money shot, the money shot...

Blaw! we take the money and run. Exploited, every one of us carries this inflated value; running around with our heads chopped off.
Where did we put our heads?
Not a one realizing how.
We put our heads collectively in the sand.

Money talks, but we dont. Money walks, but we wont. Money marches, but we cant stand. Can't form a coherent sentence while we're getting ******.

"If my dad finds out he will destroy me!"
"I won't tell."

Money wants us young, dumb, and full of idiom; and as the bubble bursts, we can't help but feel depressed.

Our faces are all over the internet. America the beautiful, I can hardly see your face behind the biggest, blackest ****.

If you want to turn anyone into your own personal *****, first you got to get the money!

Money is king. But is he kind? Money is our god, but what kind?

Money money money, MONEY!

The lyrics of every rap song on the top 100

Can we get some hoes and some money that we can throw's up in here!?

It's what we all want, and its what we all fear. Money controls us and rules us without a peer.

Money replaces trust, it replaces common decency, and puts a friendly mask on the face of a murdering monster.

Money makes me sick. It smells like burning flesh if you read it just right, and put your nose up real tight, it can start to burn you too.

Roll a hundo, give Ben a sniff. Money doesn't care if you sell it off to buy drugs or a train wreck. Money isn't ethical and neither are you.

Money wants us all to bow down, and when we rise up, we look like monopoly men.

Give me some money and I can change the world into a paradise on earth; give your local bank some money, and our world looks like a shopping mall.

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
  I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
  The lassie I lo’e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
  And monie a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
  Is ever wi’ my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
  I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
  I hear her charm the air:
There ’s not a bonnie flower that springs
  By fountain, shaw, or green;
There ’s not a bonnie bird that sings,
  But minds me o’ my Jean.

Robert Burns (1759–1796).  Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics.  1909–14.

O WERT thou in the cauld blast,
  On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
  I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee;
Or did Misfortune’s bitter storms         5
  Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my *****,
  To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste,
  Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,         10
The desert were a Paradise,
  If thou wert there, if thou wert there;
Or were I Monarch o’ the globe,
  Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my Crown         15
  *** be my Queen, *** be my Queen.

Pandemonium crowds the streets,
at this moment there was an invasion of peace,

tears running down that little girl's cheeks as she dives for safety,
I lend out my hand and offer help, "Where are your parents?"

my mother has broken her leg near the bridge, "do you have any remedies to cure her weakness, she asked?"

"I'm no doctor, but I could try to wrap cloth around the wounds and reduce the pressure, I say."..... Before I could whisper another breathe, gun shots rang, BLAW! BLAW!

vandalism of shops were destroyed, cars were wrecked, little boys were toting pistols, with a fistful of ammunition, I was in anguish, depleted, gone, extinct...and here comes my sonnet of defeat.

Armored trucks with militants came steering through, tossing c4's to subdue aggressors, purge was to maximum to overcome. This is the land of anarchy, all men, women, and children are free to do as wish, war me again as shall I this time repent, restore my health that has been thievery of me, I beg you so forgiveness.

Im tired of being different
They tell you it's appreciated
Yeah right
But I won't be not me
I'm right
Writing poems slows down the pace of the thoughts
Traps them
Helps me remember
Who I am
I hate it
But the alternative is worse
Perhaps
Patience?
I'm tired.

Nigel was a Scotchman
Who wore the kilt an aw,
He stained it with some marmalade
And rubbed his sporran raw.

A habit from his army days
When dressed in jungle green.
And pretty girls were few and far
And Nigel far too mean

To spend his hard-earned pennies
On bowls of mutton stew,
So, he took to nightly rubbing
Of his sporran - wouldn’t you?

But we all love you, Nigel.
Aye, hail, and rain doth blaw,
You great Scotch *** in jam smeared kilt.
Ye Guffey **** an aw.