Let us bid this peddler of bombast & drama adieu, who sat wicked & crafty in the bush with stunted beak & claw, black tar colored wings always flapping out dark & mean thought. Sitting daily, hiding in the thicket ready to ambush reason & blanket truth with cut n paste lies, confused & defeated he turns tail & flys. This crow off to join other ravenous gulls to compete over scrap in the heaps of garbage, in contentious junkyards into the dark night of pseudo science .
I go , I go , watch how I go!
JULIET
Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree.
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
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| ROMEO
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
;o)
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