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#31
May 26th, 2012, 02:54 AM
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Re: That's what she said
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#32
May 26th, 2012, 06:39 AM
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Re: That's what she said
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 , merge ho jaane do threads kojeetIAF
__________________
people believe in luck because they do not know how to explain the success of others.
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#33
May 26th, 2012, 06:41 AM
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Re: That's what she said
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#34
May 28th, 2012, 08:57 AM
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Re: That's what she said
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nothing will be low and everyone will know bolega bada bhai joe kuchh nahi hoga slow farmers karenge plough ham sab kahenge ek dusre ko bhul ke apne woe bahut achha hai show saneless hi hai vo DOA ka hai jo aur kav kav bolega crow
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#38
May 28th, 2012, 09:22 AM
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Re: That's what she said
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I see a great poetic mind at work ... Could you teach me how to compose such charming ditties? Thank you.
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#39
May 28th, 2012, 09:22 AM
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Re: That's what she said
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 U WROTE THAT?????  
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#41
May 28th, 2012, 10:34 AM
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#43
May 28th, 2012, 10:41 AM
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#44
May 28th, 2012, 10:45 AM
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Re: That's what she said
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There is a long tradition of men composing poems for women. Many, many different kinds of poems. Let me select one at random. Of course this has no connection to you or anything at all in this thread. It's a random poem I picked. OK, not exactly random. I happen to like this one. And I've read this in the past several times. Now you read it and enjoy! This poem is funny too, BTW. Will make you laugh, I'm sure. Composed in the 17th-century and has an Indian connection, although written by an Englisman. What's to complain about? To his Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day; Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv'd virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am'rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power. Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
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