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Happy Birthday Mith!

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Below the thunders of the upper deep,

Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

About his shadowy sides: above him swell

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;

And far away into the sickly light,

From many a wondrous grot and secret cell

Unnumbered and enormous polypi

Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green.

There hath he lain for ages and will lie

Battering upon huge seaworms in his sleep,

Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;

Then once by men and angels to be seen,

In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

I don't know what this has to do with your birthday but... whatever.


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Lucid tenacles test 'n sleeved

'n joined 'n jointed jade pointed

Diamond back patterns

Neon meate dream of a octafish

Artifact on rose petals

'n flesh petals 'n pots

Fack 'n feast 'n tubes tubs bulbs

In jest incest injest injust in feast incest

'n specks 'n spreckled spreckled

Speckled speculation

Fedlocks waddlin' feast

Archaic faces frenzy

Ceramic fists artificial deceased

'n cists rancid buds burst

Dank drum 'n dung dust

Meate rose 'n hairs

meaty dream wet meate

Limp damp rows

Peeled 'n felt fields 'n belts

Impaled on 'n daeman

Mucus mules

Twat trot tra la tra la

Tra la tra la tra la

Whale bone fields 'n belts

Whale bone farmhouse

Cavorts girdled 'n latters uh lite

Cavorts girdled 'n latters uh lite

Uh dipped amidst

Squirmin' serum 'n semen 'n syrup 'n semen

'n serum

Stirrupped in syrup

Neon meate dream of a octafish

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Many are my names in many countries. Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkûn among the Dwarves; Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not.


When evening in the Shire was gray

his footsteps on the Hill were heard;

before the dawn he went away

on journey long without a word.

From Wilderland to Western shore,

from northern waste to southern hill,

through dragon-lair and hidden door

and darkling woods he walked at will.

With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves and Men,

with mortal and immortal folk,

with bird on bough and beast in den,

in their own secret tongues he spoke.

A deadly sword, a healing hand,

a back that bent beneath its load;

a trumpet-voice, a burning brand,

a weary pilgrim on the road.

A lord of wishom throned he sat,

swift in anger, quick to laugh;

an old man in a battered hat

who leaned upon a thorny staff.

He stood upon the bridge alone

and Fire and Shadow both defied;

his staff was broken on the stone,

in Khazad-dûm his wisdom died.

All this stuff is, of course, written by Tolkien.

Happy birthday sir.

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