Dead Poet Society Made Me Do It.

"God help me", he said, "Carpe Diem".
And kissed the passed out forbidance herself.

Nuwanda stirring; folklore ungraved.

"What's the dead poet society?", he said, "I want names."
And rolled on; snap, snap.

Keating came by, dimmed the fire, to a softly roar.

"She's also in London", he said, "makes it a little difficult."
And he sipped a draught of steaming tea.

And then the sound went away...

And I could only hear the whisper of my stumbling imagination gritting "Carpe Diem, son, Seize the day."