Campers! ''Twas my work and thou now try and steal it?
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A FAWTL thread, by any other name, would run as long...
I wrote it You didn't nan nee nan nee BOO BOO!!!
*scribbles*
HAH! Varlet! Poseur! Get thee off mine stage!
This happy occasion reminds me of a sonnet I once wrote: Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Now is the breakfast of our discontent
At least you didn't write any lying plays about me... No that was Bacon ...
Frankly, your thread is not nearly saxy enough for me. I thought you were angling for me to crown it, or at least enthrone myself upon it, but now I feel like you are yorking me around. At least you finally gave me the londown on this thread. It's a brit of a disappointment, but maybe it's all dover now. Ugh I don't think your puns rose to the occasion. :P
Spare me a few mints, good sir? I need something to dull the pain. Aye sir, for that man that hath a tongue, I say is no man, If with his tongue he cannot ask for Junior Mints.
Sits on Urizen's other side and stares dagger eyes at William. Moodily chews Junior Mints and sucks on a Diet Orange Slice.
Where be that scoundrel Billy Limpspear?
Fie! I can write better than thee, Slick Willie ...
We are? Pats down doublet How now? Are we in Purgatory for being thespians? God's Wounds!
HAH! Knave! You address your betters as m'lord! Shall I teach thee manners by the edge of my blade?
Get thee to a ranttery!
Forsooth varlet! 'Tis your own fault for impugning my honor by attributing a thespian's scribblings to mine own noble hand! Fie! A pox on your house!
Wanders through, does the Mashed Potato, exits Stage Left ..
Walks through thread whistling |