Miltons schoolboy poems. ;[
Oh Milton Minor, whence comes all this dross
That Earthward seeps from shadow'd Erebus?
Whence comes this turgid pap, this foul bile;
And whence thy referential writing style?
If bright Apollo sent one of the Nine
From Helicon or Pieris, carrying wine
Of hea'nly inspirtion to thy side
That Muse would gag and threaten suicide
At thy vile maunderings. Oh! Milton must
We bear - like Tantalus, or Sysiphus
Or Proud Prothetheus torn onpo his rock
The torture of this endless load of f*ck?
What stupid English master gave a pass
To this old wank, unless he sought your arse?
Get out more, child, have fun, go fly a kite;
Give it a rest. Your poems are all shite.
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