No. Would be killed anyway

[Liger]

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No. Would be killed anyway

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That sums up too many things in the real world and things too similar to them. Are there any things where the death thing is obvious, an the opinions are to the contrary about danger?
What are those types of things to you?

[BackFistMonkey]

Man I thought this thread would be rocking and rolling. The sheer brillints of the riting and masterful prose.

[submessenger]

I vote that this thread is now about macabre poetry.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

[Broomie]

Oh can I try?
Original macabre poetry slam

Vincent price gleaming scheming
In my muddled bloody hide
Hides a rhythm pounding screaming
Feasting on my blooded bride

[Permalost]

Yes, you would be killed
and your skull cast upon the throne.
Blood for the blood god.

[Son of Thunder]

I vote that this thread is now about macabre poetry.

Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

Edgar Allan Poe (1946)

[Mandem]

You hurt the ones that I love best
And cover up the truth with lies
One day you'll be in the ditch
Flies buzzin' around your eyes
Blood on your saddle

Idiot wind
Blowin' through the flowers on your tomb
Blowin' through the curtains in your room
Idiot wind
Blowin' every time you move your teeth
You're an idiot babe
It's a wonder that you still know how to breath

Sounds better when he sings it, on reflection

[Devil]

Yes, you would be killed
and your skull cast upon the throne.
Blood for the blood god.

I will never forego an opportunity to point and laugh when people can't count syllables.

5, 7, 5 motherfucker. Not 5, 8, 5.

[Son of Thunder]

Sounds better when he sings it, on reflection

Since we're including songs now:

[submessenger]

I will never forego an opportunity to point and laugh when people can't count syllables.

5, 7, 5 motherfucker. Not 5, 8, 5.

whatever it takes?

[battlefields]

Shot to the heart,
And you're to blame,
You give love a bad name.