Poem of Sam
Pickled
A chest in vinegar,
In non-sour vinegar,
After four seasons,
It's still tits.
Would you have doubted it?
This cucurbitaceae
Is a good condiment
Because pungent while eating.
In green, of several tones.
Location of accompaniments.
Together in cooking.
In cucumber, nations
Font crops, eating it.
Supply text?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was like that
At home everything seemed to stop spontaneously;
In him everything was instantly damaged;
In him everything was repaired simultaneously;
In short, everything was happening fabulously at home.
When he had not yet put his foot down
On the land, Nice pressed his mother, he shouted,
He sulked and stamped with insistence
To be born because he always burned with impatience.
At his birth, without greeting his entourage,
Nice ran to the house full of courage
Because he wanted to see his little brothers.
He saw them and asked if they knew his father.
Zealous as he was, Nice skipped his childhood,
Absorbed puberty and adolescence
To reach adulthood, if one believes!
There was nothing to reproach; It was his right!
Singular as he was, he believed everything believed,
No cooking time, I myself did not believe
How this Nice often forgot to digest
After eating. Hard thing to manage!
It was not for this phenomenal being
Left * to exit before entering the room
Examination where it had occasion to conclude
His dissertations before introducing them.
Alas, our curious kid gave up
In sport the day before he was beaten
For having pierced the ball with the blow of the intestines,
He did not care because it was not his destiny.
Instead, he preferred to make music
Where he had a special gift of playing the unique
Instrument: the whistle. He had been
One hundred and nine in water, he was satisfied with it.
Immediately on the evening of his life, he remembered
Of all that he had previously esteemed vain;
He bought a bottle at the shop
For he had not suckled. Funny criticism!
He made himself the beard, a setting he did not know,
He loved, that he had not honored.
Little by little his energy was exhausted;
But the infernal envy of the meat grew
To the point that he crushed and swallowed his tongue;
From then on, life seemed long;
At his death, seeing that those who accompanied him
At the grave neglected his time to gain,
He took his cross, dug so fast and bury himself
To the living, he wrote: "Yesterday we shall see."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Me chatterbox?
Me ! A talker!
That sees so much?
Oh ! Hoax!
True ? Does that mean?
Even in writing?
The flow of words,
You invaded
Full of echoes?
In your thoughts?
What crossroads,
To cross each other,
In detours.
In your actions?
To express,
Our relationships,
To communicate?
