Start with the old adage of victories and kings, squeezing out histories wherever they massacre one another (and whatever else may happen to be in the way) then move next to the burlap encrusted monks, pinching pens and scrawling scripts then finally spray the whole thing with the ghost of the time broadcast by those scribes who were just too bored to record the facts of fate and you have a song sung by a jester full of rhythm and rhyme but syncopating nothing.
I call it history but it rarely answers to that name so instead I shout cliches from a handstand then I get a laugh at least but the head scribe, elephant head and all, plows forward over me (and whoever else happens to be) until his two cycle engine runs out of the purest of fuel mixtures: the human mind and time.
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Start with the old adage of victories and kings, squeezing out histories wherever they massacre one another (and whatever else may happen to be in the way) then move next to the burlap encrusted monks, pinching pens and scrawling scripts then finally spray the whole thing with the ghost of the time broadcast by those scribes who were just too bored to record the facts of fate and you have a song sung by a jester full of rhythm and rhyme but syncopating nothing.
I call it history but it rarely answers to that name so instead I shout cliches from a handstand then I get a laugh at least but the head scribe, elephant head and all, plows forward over me (and whoever else happens to be) until his two cycle engine runs out of the purest of fuel mixtures: the human mind and time.
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