Wednesday, June 20, 2007

James Joyce

A keen October wind was blowin’ round the bank
The drunkards stood waiting around the drunkard’s tank
And people spoke in whispers of the casket in the square
The stone-faced pall-bearers in two lines to lead the fair

And James Joyce is crying old Irish tears
In the corner of a pub, forgotten against the years
And Hemingway leans himself against the bar
He nods at the barkeep who pours him one more

Hell is spraying preachers who warn a coming storm
They sermonize all fears and shoot craps in the morn
But poker is a game for the honest man to play
Though he loses every hand that folds up to pray


Rodrigo said...

Oi, achei teu blog pelo google tá bem interessante gostei desse post. Quando der dá uma passada pelo meu blog, é sobre camisetas personalizadas, mostra passo a passo como criar uma camiseta personalizada bem maneira. Até mais.

Tovi said...

Great work.