Is this a wiener which I see before me,
Beckoning toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A knackwurst of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to gain,
Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There’s no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o’er the one reborn
Nature seems fluid, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain’d sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Poor tranny offerings, and wither’d kielbasa,
Alarum’d by his pride flag, the addled,
Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost to the Levi’s display
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my turnabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I mend, he minces
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
A bell rings.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, surgeon ;for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
Exit.
Well, how else was he supposed to cast his plays what with that “no females on stage” law at the time?
“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely trannys.”
I think the Translady doth protest too much,
Alas, poor Nodick, I knew her well…
Is this a wiener which I see before me,
Beckoning toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A knackwurst of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to gain,
Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There’s no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o’er the one reborn
Nature seems fluid, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain’d sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Poor tranny offerings, and wither’d kielbasa,
Alarum’d by his pride flag, the addled,
Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost to the Levi’s display
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my turnabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I mend, he minces
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
A bell rings.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, surgeon ;for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
Exit.
Is there any reason you can’t remove dead links over there on the left side of the page?
Some of them died before the pandemic thingy.
Links? Those aren’t links. Those are the screen names of the people we fed to the EMU for asking questions.
Our technical staff went on holiday years ago. At least we think they are on Holiday.
To be a he or not to be a he
That is the question
…or To be a she or not to be a she. That is the question.