Poster of the Year Exploratory Committee

That thread knew that it should meet its fate,
in the blue skies above;
Those who ignored it it did not hate,
those who posted on it it did not love.

 

That thread killed a drifter to get an erection.

 

That thread wrote the songs.

 

One more thing, any member who forms an exploratory committee needs to file campaign finance papers with my office.

Murphy's campaign materials look slick and professional, and the voting members of SportsJournalists.com deserve to know how those materials were produced and who financed them.

 

That thread is hog butcher for the world,
tool maker, stacker of wheat,
player with railroads and the nation's freight handler;
stormy, husky, brawling,
thread of the big shoulders:

 

Also, quite a few members are seeing their stock decline thanks to their recent posts. If this continues, we may have the SportsJournalists.com equivalent of Black Monday.

 

Yes. Yes I would. Actually I would kick him out of life for Ebony and Ivory.

 

The wilderness rose up to that thread,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The thread was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

 

I hate it when I don't get the threadjacks.

 

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only thread is 'Turning down a romp in the hay'.

 

I would suggest that Buck and Bubbler just wrestle it out, sumo-style. But it's sounding like Buck would shave points.

 

Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
An entire thread about anal sex.