An Epitath

Here lies The Hound, worm eaten,
horey old carcass weather beaten.
His timely passing won’t be noted
by the bastards for whom he voted.
So why in hell did he even try
when he knew he surely would die?
Why didn’t he simply party on;
‘cos that was not this bloke called Ron.

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About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
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