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Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 
In the forests of the night; 
What immortal hand or eye, 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies. 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain, 
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp, 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp! 

When the stars threw down their spears 
And water'd heaven with their tears: 
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 
In the forests of the night: 
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

It was many and many a year ago, 
   In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
   By the name of ANNABEL LEE;-- 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
   Than to love and be loved by me. 
She was a child and I was a child, 
   In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more than love-- 
   I and my Annabel Lee-- 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
   Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 
   In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud by night 
   Chilling my Annabel Lee; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 
   And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 
   In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, 
   Went envying her and me:-- 
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, 
   In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling 
   And killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
   Of those who were older than we-- 
   Of many far wiser than we- 
And neither the angels in Heaven above, 
   Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:-- 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, 
   In her sepulchre there by the sea-- 
   In her tomb by the side of the sea. 

My mom makes disgusting spaghetti
with horseradish sauce and sardines.
She tops it with pickles and mustard,
bananas and barbecued beans.

She serves it for supper on Sunday.
On Monday we have it for lunch.
It's breakfast on Tuesday and Wednesday.
By Thursday, you guessed it, it's brunch.

I don't like to hurt my mom's feelings.
I said that I loved it. (I lied.)
I always gave mine to our doggy.
And that's why our poor doggy died.

So next time you serve us spaghetti,
dear mother, don't make it like that.
Please serve it with red sauce and meatballs,
and that way it won't kill the cat.

--Kenn Nesbitt and Donna Lee Murphy