(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5652210&forum_id=2#48470207)

Birches

By Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows—

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone.

One by one he subdued his father's trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them,

And not one but hung limp, not one was left

For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to be.

It’s when I’m weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig’s having lashed across it open.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:

I don’t know where it's likely to go better.

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5652210&forum_id=2#48470347)

By Robert Frost

(A Christmas Circular Letter)

The city had withdrawn into itself

And left at last the country to the country;

When between whirls of snow not come to lie

And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove

A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,

Yet did in country fashion in that there

He sat and waited till he drew us out

A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.

He proved to be the city come again

To look for something it had left behind

And could not do without and keep its Christmas.

He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;

My woods—the young fir balsams like a place

Where houses all are churches and have spires.

I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.

I doubt if I was tempted for a moment

To sell them off their feet to go in cars

And leave the slope behind the house all bare,

Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.

I’d hate to have them know it if I was.

Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except

As others hold theirs or refuse for them,

Beyond the time of profitable growth,

The trial by market everything must come to.

I dallied so much with the thought of selling.

Then whether from mistaken courtesy

And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether

From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,

“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”

“I could soon tell how many they would cut,

You let me look them over.”

“You could look.

But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”

Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close

That lop each other of boughs, but not a few

Quite solitary and having equal boughs

All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,

Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,

With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”

I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.

We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,

And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:

“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant

To let him have them. Never show surprise!

But thirty dollars seemed so small beside

The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents

(For that was all they figured out apiece),

Three cents so small beside the dollar friends

I should be writing to within the hour

Would pay in cities for good trees like those,

Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools

Could hang enough on to pick off enough.

A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!

Worth three cents more to give away than sell,

As may be shown by a simple calculation.

Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.

I can’t help wishing I could send you one,

In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5652210&forum_id=2#48470353)

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house (hol' up)

I said certified freak, seven days a week

Wet ass pussy, make that pullout game weak, woo! (Ah)

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Yeah, you fucking with some wet ass pussy

Bring a bucket and a mop for this wet ass pussy

Give me everything you got for this wet ass pussy

Beat it up, nigga, catch a charge

Extra large, and extra hard

Put this pussy right in yo' face

Swipe your nose like a credit card

Hop on top, I want a ride

I do a kegel while it's inside

Spit in my mouth, look at my eyes

This pussy is wet, come take a dive

Tie me up like I'm surprised

Let's role-play, I wear a disguise

I want you to park that big Mack truck right in this little garage

Make it cream, make me scream

Out in public, make a scene

I don't cook, I don't clean

But let me tell you, I got this ring (ayy, ayy)

Gobble me, swallow me, drip down the side of me (yeah)

Quick, jump out 'fore you let it get inside of me (yeah)

I tell him where to put it, never tell him where I'm 'bout to be

I run down on him 'fore I have a nigga running me

Talk yo' shit, bite your lip

Ask for a car while you ride that dick (while you ride that dick)

You ain't never gotta fuck him for a thing

He already made his mind up 'fore he came

Now get your boots and your coat for this wet ass pussy

He bought a phone just for pictures of this wet ass pussy

Pay my tuition just to kiss me on this wet ass pussy

Now make it rain if you wanna see some wet ass pussy

Look, I need a hard hitter, I need a deep stroke

I need a Henny drink, I need a weed smoker

Not a garden snake, I need a king cobra

With a hook in it, hope it lean over

He got some money, then that's where I'm headed

Pussy A-1, just like his credit

He got a beard, well, I'm tryna wet it

I let him taste it, and now he diabetic

I don't wanna spit, I wanna gulp

I wanna gag, I wanna choke

I want you to touch that lil' dangly thing that swing in the back of my throat

My head game is fire, punani Dasani

It's going in dry, and it's coming out soggy

I ride on that thing like the cops is behind me (yuh, ah)

I spit on his mic' and now he tryna sign me, woo

Your honor, I'm a freak bitch, handcuffs, leashes

Switch my wig, make him feel like he cheating

Put him on his knees, give him some' to believe in

Never lost a fight, but I'm looking for a beating

In the food chain, I'm the one that eat ya

If he ate my ass, he's a bottom feeder

Big D stand for big demeanor

I could make ya bust before I ever meet ya

If it don't hang, then he can't bang

You can't hurt my feelings, but I like pain

If he fuck me and ask, "Whose is it?"

When I ride the dick, I'ma spell my name, ah

(Whores in this house)

Yeah, yeah, yeah

Yeah, you fucking with some wet ass pussy

Bring a bucket and a mop for this wet ass pussy

Give me everything you got for this wet ass pussy

Now from the top, make it drop, that's some wet ass pussy

Now get a bucket and a mop, that's some wet ass pussy

I'm talking WAP, WAP, WAP, that's some wet ass pussy

Macaroni in a pot, that's some wet ass pussy, huh

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores-

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5652210&forum_id=2#48472386)