How sad, NDP just had to be right after Beijing's big day. But it's okay, let me sing you a song.
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to Singapore
Happy birthday to you
You’re a peaceful country
Where no villains roam free
We laugh as we’re tethered by
Realpolitik democracy
We are so, so happy
With our peace and prosperity
Please build more casinos
To feed our families
And so…..
Happy birthday to Yew
Happy birthday to Yew
Happy birthday to singapore
Happy birthday to Yew!!!
Saturday, 9 August 2008
Friday, 1 August 2008
Longhand Is Better
Longhand Is Better
It amazes me that sometimes time makes me wonder how
I did what I did a long time ago when I wasn’t sure where
Time would take me.
It is like how
Rust
Eats
It amazes me that sometimes time makes me wonder how
I did what I did a long time ago when I wasn’t sure where
Time would take me.
It is like how
Rust
Eats
Away
The
Mettle
Of
Life
The
Mettle
Of
Life
And
Her
Her
Thoughts
Or how w e a r y m u s c l e s stretch the elasticity of the will
Even to the extent of adding
Ses…ses-qwee…sex-khee...sex-khee-pee-da-liahn…puh-day-liahn…sick-ski…
…Words or seasonal expressions to make a piece of work
Seem more complicated and conceited than it already
Is, all to only capture your attention for a minute or so.
So I ask: What structures the basis of rambling?
Longhand will always be better
For the man who is losing touch
And tearing at his writings,
And whose freedom is his prisoner’s-train-ride to the Arctic
Where upon the conception of “cold, wintry nights versus the warmth of love”,
Ink doesn’t dry but freezes instead.
Or how w e a r y m u s c l e s stretch the elasticity of the will
Even to the extent of adding
Ses…ses-qwee…sex-khee...sex-khee-pee-da-liahn…puh-day-liahn…sick-ski…
…Words or seasonal expressions to make a piece of work
Seem more complicated and conceited than it already
Is, all to only capture your attention for a minute or so.
So I ask: What structures the basis of rambling?
Longhand will always be better
For the man who is losing touch
And tearing at his writings,
And whose freedom is his prisoner’s-train-ride to the Arctic
Where upon the conception of “cold, wintry nights versus the warmth of love”,
Ink doesn’t dry but freezes instead.
~tc©
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