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I have the knack of easing scruples.

quote by Moliere
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto I

THE ARGUMENT

The Knight and Squire resolve, at once,
The one the other to renounce.
They both approach the Lady's Bower;
The Squire t'inform, the Knight to woo her.
She treats them with a Masquerade,
By Furies and Hobgoblins made;
From which the Squire conveys the Knight,
And steals him from himself, by Night.

'Tis true, no lover has that pow'r
T' enforce a desperate amour,
As he that has two strings t' his bow,
And burns for love and money too;
For then he's brave and resolute,
Disdains to render in his suit,
Has all his flames and raptures double,
And hangs or drowns with half the trouble,
While those who sillily pursue,
The simple, downright way, and true,
Make as unlucky applications,
And steer against the stream their passions.
Some forge their mistresses of stars,
And when the ladies prove averse,
And more untoward to be won
Than by CALIGULA the Moon,
Cry out upon the stars, for doing
Ill offices to cross their wooing;
When only by themselves they're hindred,
For trusting those they made her kindred;
And still, the harsher and hide-bounder
The damsels prove, become the fonder.
For what mad lover ever dy'd
To gain a soft and gentle bride?
Or for a lady tender-hearted,
In purling streams or hemp departed?
Leap'd headlong int' Elysium,
Through th' windows of a dazzling room?
But for some cross, ill-natur'd dame,
The am'rous fly burnt in his flame.
This to the Knight could be no news,
With all mankind so much in use;
Who therefore took the wiser course,
To make the most of his amours,
Resolv'd to try all sorts of ways,
As follows in due time and place

No sooner was the bloody fight,
Between the Wizard, and the Knight,

[...] Read more

poem by Samuel Butler
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Lessons of the War

To Alan Mitchell

Vixi duellis nuper idoneus
Et militavi non sine gloria

I. Naming of Parts

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards; we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring. It is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb; like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.

poem by Henry Reed
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Naming of Parts

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens likecoral in all the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call is easing the Spring.

They call is easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have the naming of parts.

poem by Henry Reed
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Women In Love

It always comes, and when it comes they know.
To will it is enough to bring them there.
The knack is this, to fasten and not let go.

Their limbs are charmed; they cannot stay or go.
Desire is limbo: they¼re unhappy there.
It always comes, and when it comes they know.

Their choice of hells would be the one they know.
Dante describes it, the wind circling there.
The knack is this, to fasten and not let go.

The wind carries them where they want to go.
Yet it seems cruel to strangers passing there.
It always comes, and when it comes they know
The knack is this, to fasten and not let go.

poem by Donald Justice
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With A Fixed Commitment

It's hard to keep one's focus,
Kept centered on a map...
When a giving to distractors,
A snack who have a knack...
To,
Munch upon the ears of those,
With noses to impose...
Their way of throwing wrenches,
In the spoke of rolling wheels.

It's hard to keep one's focus,
Kept centered on a map...
When a giving to distractors,
A snack who have a knack...
To,
Dump their lumps on something smooth,
With a negativity they use.
And hoping that their attitudes,
Circumvents since this is meant.

It's hard to keep one's focus,
When...
Distractors dump their moods,
To...
Circumvent since this meant.
And with a fixed commitment.

It's hard to keep one's focus,
Kept centered on a map...
When a giving to distractors,
A snack who have a knack...
To,
Munch upon the ears of those,
With noses to impose...
Their way of throwing wrenches,
In the spoke of rolling wheels.

It's hard to keep one's focus,
When...
Distractors dump their moods,
To...
Circumvent since this meant.
And with a fixed commitment.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Man Who Would Woo a Fair Maid

A man who would woo a fair maid,
Should 'prentice himself to the trade;
And study all day,
In methodical way,
How to flatter, cajole, and persuade.
He should 'prentice himself at fourteen
And practise from morning to e'en;
And when he's of age,
If he will, I'll engage,
He may capture the heart of a queen!
It is purely a matter of skill,
Which all may attain if they will:
But every Jack
He must study the knack
If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

If he's made the best use of his time,
His twig he'll so carefully lime
That every bird
Will come down at his word.
Whatever its plumage and clime.
He must learn that the thrill of a touch
May mean little, or nothing, or much;
It's an instrument rare,
To be handled with care,
And ought to be treated as such.
It is purely a matter of skill,
Which all may attain if they will:
But every Jack,
He must study the knack
If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

Then a glance may be timid or free;
It will vary in mighty degree,
From an impudent stare
To a look of despair
That no maid without pity can see.
And a glance of despair is no guide -
It may have its ridiculous side;
It may draw you a tear
Or a box on the ear;
You can never be sure till you've tried.
It is purely a matter of skill,
Which all may attain if they will:
But every Jack
He must study the knack
If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Second Book

TIMES followed one another. Came a morn
I stood upon the brink of twenty years,
And looked before and after, as I stood
Woman and artist,–either incomplete,
Both credulous of completion. There I held
The whole creation in my little cup,
And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank,
'Good health to you and me, sweet neighbour mine
And all these peoples.'
I was glad, that day;
The June was in me, with its multitudes
Of nightingales all singing in the dark,
And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split.
I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God!
So glad, I could not choose be very wise!
And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull
My childhood backward in a childish jest
To see the face of't once more, and farewell!
In which fantastic mood I bounded forth
At early morning,–would not wait so long
As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings,
But, brushing a green trail across the lawn
With my gown in the dew, took will and way
Among the acacias of the shrubberies,
To fly my fancies in the open air
And keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke
To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on,
As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves;
'The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned
Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone,
And so with me it must be, unless I prove
Unworthy of the grand adversity,–
And certainly I would not fail so much.
What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day
In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it,
Before my brows be numb as Dante's own
To all the tender pricking of such leaves?
Such leaves? what leaves?'
I pulled the branches down,
To choose from.
'Not the bay! I choose no bay;
The fates deny us if we are overbold:
Nor myrtle–which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dare not touch
So early o' mornings. This verbena strains
The point of passionate fragrance; and hard by,
This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck
Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.
Ah–there's my choice,–that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Spectacles

I LATELY vowed to leave the nuns alone,
So oft their freaks have in my page been shown.
The subject may at length fatigue the mind;
My Muse the veil howe'er is still inclined,
Conspicuously to hold to publick view,
And, 'mong the sisters, scene and scene pursue.
Is this too much?--the nicest tricks they play;
Through soft amours oft artfully they stray,
And these in full I'd readily detail,
If I were sure the subject would not fail;
And that's impossible I must admit,
'Twould endless be, the tales appear so fit;
There's not a clerk so expeditious found,
Who could record the stories known around.
The sisters to forget, were I to try,
Suspicions might arise that, by and by,
I should return: some case might tempt my pen;
So oft I've overrun the convent-den,
Like one who always makes, from time to time,
The conversation with his feelings chime.
But let us to an end the subject bring,
And after this, of other matters sing.

IN former times was introduced a lad
Among the nuns, and like a maiden clad;
A charming girl by all he was believed;
Fifteen his age; no doubts were then conceived;
Coletta was the name the youth had brought,
And, till he got a beard, was sister thought.

THE period howsoe'er was well employed,
And from it Agnes profit had enjoyed;
What profit?--truly better had I said,
That sister Agnes by him was misled,
And store of ills received; misfortune dire
Obliged the nun more girdle to require,
And ultimately to produce (in spite
Of ev'ry wish to guard the fact from light)
A little creature that our hist'ries say,
Was found Coletta's features to display.

GREAT scandal quickly through the convent ran:
How could this child arrive?--the sisters 'gan
To laugh and ask, if in an evil hour,
The mushroom could have fallen with a show'r?
Or self-created was it not supposed?
Much rage the abbess presently disclosed;
To have her holy mansion thus disgraced!
Forthwith the culprit was in prison placed.

[...] Read more

poem by La Fontaine
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Hudibras: Part 2 - Canto II

THE ARGUMENT

The Knight and Squire, in hot dispute,
Within an ace of falling out,
Are parted with a sudden fright
Of strange alarm, and stranger sight;
With which adventuring to stickle,
They're sent away in nasty pickle.

'Tis strange how some mens' tempers suit
(Like bawd and brandy) with dispute,
That for their own opinions stand last
Only to have them claw'd and canvast;
That keep their consciences in cases,
As fiddlers do their crowds and bases,
Ne'er to be us'd, but when they're bent
To play a fit for argument;
Make true and false, unjust and just,
Of no use but to be discust;
Dispute, and set a paradox
Like a straight boot upon the stocks,
And stretch it more unmercifully
Than HELMONT, MONTAIGN, WHITE, or TULLY,
So th' ancient Stoicks, in their porch,
With fierce dispute maintain'd their church;
Beat out their brains in fight and study,
To prove that Virtue is a Body;
That Bonum is an Animal,
Made good with stout polemic brawl;
in which some hundreds on the place
Were slain outright; and many a face
Retrench'd of nose, and eyes, and beard,
To maintain what their sect averr'd;
All which the Knight and Squire, in wrath,
Had like t' have suffered for their faith,
Each striving to make good his own,
As by the sequel shall be shown.

The Sun had long since, in the lap
Of THETIS, taken out his nap,
And, like a lobster boil'd, the morn
From black to red began to turn,
When HUDIBRAS, whom thoughts and aking,
'Twixt sleeping kept all night and waking,
Began to rub his drowsy eyes,
And from his couch prepar'd to rise,
Resolving to dispatch the deed
He vow'd to do with trusty speed.
But first, with knocking loud, and bawling,
He rouz'd the Squire, in truckle lolling;

[...] Read more

poem by Samuel Butler
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Pity For Poor Africans

I own I am shocked at the purchase of slaves,
And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves;
What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and groans
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones.

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,
For how could we do without sugar and rum?
Especially sugar, so needful we see;
What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea?

Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes,
Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains:
If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will:
And tortures and groans will be multiplied still.

If foreigners likewise would give up the trade,
Much more in behalf of your wish might be said;
But, while they got riches by purchasing blacks,
Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks?

Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind
A story so pat, you may think it is coined,
On purpose to answer you, out of my mint;
But I can assure you I saw it in print.

A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest,
Had once his integrity put to the test;
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob,
And asked him to go and assist in the job.

He was shocked, sir, like you, and answered -- 'Oh, no
What! rob our good neighbour? I pray you don't go!
Besides the man's poor, his orchard's his bread;
Then think of his children, for they must be fed.'

'You speak very fine, and you look very grave,
But apples we want, and apples we'll have;
If you will go with us, you shall have a share,
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.'

They spoke, and Tom pondered --'I see they will go:
Poor man! what a pity to injure him so!
Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could,
But staying behind will do him no good.

'If the matter depended alone upon me,
His apples might hang till they dropped from the tree;
But since they will take them, I think I'll go too:
He will lose none by me, though I get a few.'

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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Hurting inside me! !

Help me please
Underneath it hurts
Really badly
Taking my breath away
Instant pain
Never easing
Growing every minute

Instant pain
Never stops
Stop before you scar me deep
Inside I'm screaming
Dying helplessly
Every heartbeat causes pain

My very last breath
Easing the pain as I drift
! !

This is one of those acrostic poems!

poem by Becky Ginn
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The Pace Of Life

How very nice it is after working all day,
To come back home and quietly wile away,
Your leisure hours in many pleasant ways,
Easing the pressures of your present days.

Life is a round of lots of things to do,
Demands are made, and we must see them through,
Our brains get muddled and we cannot think,
For our minds are forever teetering on the brink!

There's loads of 'remedies' for sale out there,
Said to solve strain and stress, but do beware,
These remedies are not quite what you need,
The 'slowing down' is where you will succeed.

For we go rushing on at such a speed,
Pounding away without the time to 'heed'
Like the methodical clock that's ticking on the wall,
There is no time to stop or even stall.

Everyone is on a fast conveyor belt,
Tensions mount and then the panic's felt,
We must slow down now, and set the pace,
For ourselves in this mad frantic race.

Time was, when life for us was calm and steady,
Running like a slow and gentle eddy,
Life was hard but had it's rhythmic progress,
Taking time, saved us from certain distress.

There's no escape now from our daily toil,
We seem to be permanently on the boil,
That's why our leisure time gives us an easing,
For going at such a speed, is just not pleasing.

Something has got to give, to make us stop,
And realise that if we don't, we're going to drop!
We are not machines that can go on forever,
We may be bright, and OK we may be clever.

But what use is that if we no longer function,
When we have gone and reached the final junction,
There's one way left and that is up to you,
Look after yourself, and to yourself be true.

Be happy, be cheerful, be relaxed and calm,
Do nothing that is too quick to cause alarm
Your body and brain, you must keep steady and sure,
And you will undoubtedly live, to one hundred and four!

[...] Read more

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Greater Than Most

Challenges are many.
And those balls some juggle,
Are greater than most.

The steps it takes to move forward,
Seem weighted and thick.
As if the paths those journey,
Must be done with the carrying...
Of a ton of bricks.

Yet,
There is a light that shines...
With an easing of tensions.
There is a fresh breeze that blows,
To cool and dry the wetness of sweat.

And even though the challenges of many,
That are faced.
There is a place of rest to reflect...
The rewards of continuing on.

With an achieving of success...
Those determined and motivated,
Feel within themselves and get!

Challenges are many.
And those balls some juggle,
Are greater than most.
Yet,
There is a light that shines...
With an easing of tensions.

With an achieving of success...
Those determined and motivated,
Feel within themselves and get!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Old Man's Calendar

OFT have I seen in wedlock with surprise,
That most forgot from which true bliss would rise
When marriage for a daughter is designed,
The parents solely riches seem to mind;
All other boons are left to heav'n above,
And sweet SIXTEEN must SIXTY learn to love!
Yet still in other things they nicer seem,
Their chariot-horses and their oxen-team
Are truly matched;--in height exact are these,
While those each shade alike must have to please;
Without the choice 'twere wonderful to find,
Or coach or wagon travel to their mind.
The marriage journey full of cares appears,
When couples match in neither souls nor years!
An instance of the kind I'll now detail:
The feeling bosom will such lots bewail!

QUINZICA, (Richard), as the story goes,
Indulged his wife at balls, and feasts, and shows,
Expecting other duties she'd forget,
In which howe'er he disappointment met.
A judge in Pisa, Richard was, it seems,
In law most learned: wily in his schemes;
But silver beard and locks too clearly told,
He ought to have a wife of diff'rent mould;
Though he had taken one of noble birth,
Quite young, most beautiful, and formed for mirth,
Bartholomea Galandi her name;
The lady's parents were of rank and fame;
Our JUDGE herein had little wisdom shown,
And sneering friends around were often known
To say, his children ne'er could fathers lack:
At giving counsel some have got a knack,
Who, were they but at home to turn their eyes,
Might find, perhaps, they're not so over-wise.

QUINZICA, then perceiving that his pow'rs
Fell short of what a bird like his devours,
T'excuse himself and satisfy his dear,
Pretended that, no day within the year,
To Hymen, as a saint, was e'er assigned,
In calendar, or book of any kind,
When full ATTENTION to the god was paid:--
To aged sires a nice convenient aid;
But this the sex by no means fancy right;
Few days to PLEASURE could his heart invite
At times, the week entire he'd have a fast;
At others, say the day 'mong saints was classed,
Though no one ever heard its holy name;--
FAST ev'ry Friday--Saturday the same,

[...] Read more

poem by La Fontaine
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On Auto Systematic

On auto systematic.
Delighted I am,
To have a light that shines.
I had been one quite static...
And fanatic in lacking to feed,
My own needs.

I'm on auto systematic.
And programmed to have all by bolts,
Committed to a tight snug fit.
Sidetracked no longer my knack...
Or quick am I to trip.

I'm on auto systematic.
Sidetracked no longer my knack.
Auto systematic.
With a preference I keep in tact.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Isnt It Midnight

Written by christine mcvie.
So cool, calm and collected
You had a style, a rakish style
Well my poor heart never connected
Youd stay so long on my mind.
Well, isnt it midnight on the other side of the world
Do you remember t
The face of a pretty girl
The face of a pretty girl
Looking back so long ago
You had a knack, a knack of making women know
Ooh there wasnt the time
And I knew youd nver be mine
Well, isnt it midnight on the other side of the world
Do you remember
The face of a pretty girl
The face of a pretty girl
The face of a pretty girl
Isnt it midnight on the other side of the world
Do you remember
The face of a pretty girl
The face of a pretty girl
The face of a pretty girl

song performed by Fleetwood Mac
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Ive Got A Flair

Ive got a flair
For pulling your hair
And making you crazy
Oh yeah, oh yeah
Its something I do well
Ive got a flair
For making you care
You know you should hate me
Oh yeah, oh yeah
Its something I do well
Well you know I never meant to hurt no one
But I got a knack for getting things undone
And I got a way of ruining your fun
All the time
Ive got a flair
For holding a stare
And holding you downtown
Oh yeah, oh yeah
Its something I can tell
Well you know I never meant to hurt no one
But I got a knack for getting things undone
And I got a way of ruining your fun
All the time
Ive got a flair
For getting in your hair
And making you crazy
Oh yeah, oh yeah
Its something I do well
Its something I do well
Its something I do well

song performed by Fountains Of Wayne
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Shoot & Ladders

Ring-a-round-the-rosies.
Pocket full of posies.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
Nursery rhymes are said, verses in my head.
Into my childhood, theyre spoon fed.
Hidden violence revealed, darkness that seems real.
Look at the pages that cause all this evil.
One, two - buckle my shoe.
Three, four - shut the door.
Five, six - pick up sticks.
Seven, eight - lay them straight
London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down.
London bridge is falling down my fair lady.
Nursery rhymes are said, verses in my head.
Into my childhood, theyre spoon fed.
Hidden violence revealed, darkness that seems real.
Look at the pages that cause all this evil.
Knick-knack paddywhack, give a dog a bone.
This old man came rolling home.
Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow.
Baa baa black have you any wool? yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.
Ring-a-round-the-rosies.
Pocket full of posies.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
Nursery rhymes are said, verses in my head.
Into my childhood, theyre spoon fed.
Hidden violence revealed, darkness that seems real.
Look at the pages that cause all this evil.
Knick-knack paddywhack, give a dog a bone!

song performed by Korn
Added by Lucian Velea
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Young And Aspiring

So let's not even try you're right let's ball it up and
throw it out the window
It's becoming all so clear in my mind
I've thought this thing through like once or twice
I feel that this is my last request to you
Hold your breath
Bottle it up and save it for the next one
It's safe to say we've been riding this all night
None of this will ever change your mind
It's never safe to rely on borrowed time
Now we're both undone and it's time to open up
your eyes
Consequence, it's our need in times like these
Feelin' free is our modern disease
You're a cry for disaster, with a knack for losing
your exterior
I'm so sick
From staring at the mirror
This all needs a break from you
And I'm used to this
I fear that I am just an end
So you'll play the mistaken and I'll play the
victim
In our screenplay of desire and I'm still writing
the letters I'll never send
Running in circles I can't forget how many times
I've played this in my mind
Feelin free, Feelin freee
Consequence, it's our need in times like these
Feelin' free is our modern disease
You're a cry for disaster, with a knack for losing
your exterior
I'm so sick
From staring at the mirror
This is my panic, This is my call to arms

song performed by Underoath
Added by Lucian Velea
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