there once was a man with a hat
a tall one at that
the man with the hat that was tall at that had a cat that had had a pet
the pet of the cat of the man with the hat that was tall at that was a hamster

Your fortune: You will meet a dark handsome stranger

File: 1789750085358428.png (363 KB, 629x640)

363 KB PNG

Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

Your fortune: Outlook good

File: 1488202587154.png (430 KB, 664x874)

430 KB PNG

My sad heart drools on deck,
A heart splattered with chaw:
A target for bowls of soup,
My sad heart drools on deck:
Soldiers jeer and guffaw.
My sad heart drools on deck,
A heart splattered with chaw!

Ithyphallic and soldierly,
Their jeers have soiled me!
Painted on the tiller
Ithyphallic and soldierly.
Abracadabric seas,
Cleanse my heart of this disease.
Ithyphallic and soldierly,
Their jeers have soiled me!

When they’ve shot their wads,
How will my stolen heart react?
Bacchic fits and bacchic starts
When they’ve shot their wads:
I’ll retch to see my heart
Trampled by these clods.
What will my stolen heart do
When they’ve shot their wads?

May 1871

Your fortune: （　´_ゝ`）ﾌｰﾝ

File: 1789975409729884.jpg (468 KB, 1414x2000)

468 KB JPG

I'll die on the mountain that American literature is the greatest.

Your fortune: Very Bad Luck

File: a-psalm-of-life-henry-wad(...).jpg (96 KB, 720x900)

96 KB JPG

>>13194379
this is my favourite poem ever and it's written by an american actually

>>13194379
Do I really even need to say it at this point

File: 1779901136763246.png (405 KB, 914x1140)

405 KB PNG

>>13194385
what u like pretentious French Nuevo or Russian slop that makes me wanna kms

Your fortune: Excellent Luck

>>13194385
m?

>>13194382
Wadsworth was tremendous
I love English and words but the best stuff was plain.
To quote Terry genius is simplicity.


A raven sat upon a tree,
And not a word he spoke, for
His beak contained a piece of Brie.
Or, maybe it was Roquefort.
We’ll make it any kind you please --
At all events it was a cheese.

Beneath the tree’s umbrageous limb
A hungry fox sat smiling;
He saw the raven watching him,
And spoke in words beguiling:
"J’admire," said he, "ton beau plumage!"
(The which was simply persiflage.)

Two things there are, no doubt you know,
To which a fox is used:
A rooster that is bound to crow,
A crow that’s bound to roost;
And whichsoever he espies
He tells the most unblushing lies.

"Sweet fowl," he said, "I understand
You’re more than merely natty;
I hear you sing to beat the band
And Adelina Patti.
Pray render with your liquid tongue
A bit from Götterdämmerung."

This subtle speech was aimed to please
The crow, and it succeeded;
He thought no bird in all the trees
Could sing as well as he did.
In flattery completely doused,
He gave the "Jewel Song" from Faust.

But gravitation’s law, of course,
As Isaac Newton showed it,
Exerted on the cheese its force,
And elsewhere soon bestowed it.
In fact, there is no need to tell
What happened when to earth it fell.

I blush to add that when the bird
Took in the situation
He said one brief, emphatic word,
Unfit for publication.
The fox was greatly startled, but
He only sighed and answered, "Tut."

THE MORAL is: A fox is bound
To be a shameless sinner.
And also: When the cheese comes round
You know it’s after dinner.
But (what is only known to few)
The fox is after dinner, too.

Your fortune: Average Luck

>>13194385
read This Delectable Horchata by Tyler Stenbridge

File: funpostin.png (7 KB, 400x400)

7 KB PNG

>>13194327
and the raven
still is sitting
just above my chamber door
and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon
that is dreaming
nevermore
and the lamplight o'r him streaming
throws his shadow on the floor
and my soul
from out of that shadow
shall be lifted
nevermore
>raven, by pavo, (but secretly it was by noisecontrollers all along)

Your fortune: Good news will come to you by mail

File: 1787508788497166.jpg (57 KB, 366x334)

57 KB JPG

If—
By Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a nicer, my son!

i wana b da lil girl
runnin the hospital floor
giggles bouncin off da walls
not a mind should i fall
i wana b da lil girl

Your fortune: Good news will come to you by mail

No that’s for fags lol