Lymeric

There once was a shimmery ghost,

Of the girl young Laurence loved most,

On the day that she drowned,

She sank all the way down,

Now Laurence will no longer boast.

What is left for the Typist?

   For the Author, there are the Words, for him to place upon the page.

   For the Poet, there is the Rhyme, to add meaning to his writing.

   For the Songwriter there are the Lyrics, to give his tunes some feeling.

   For the Musician there are the Notes, to bring the Night alive.

   But what is left for the Typist, except the hollow click-clack of the Keys?

   Yes, what is left for the Typist; surely he works as hard as the Rest?              

    It seems that Nothing is left for the Typist,  although he does his best.

Mars News

It's nice and warm here; lots of Martians about.

Ciao !!!!!!!
-Maddy!@#$%^&***()

p.s. can't wait 'till x-mas!!@#etc....

First-ever post

Hello Earthlings! I just created my own blog. I hope you like it!
-Maddy.