slanderhour

In childhood's realm, young Barrymore did dwell, A world apart, where trials and hardships swelled. No tender hands to guide him on life's path, Alone he wandered, facing nature's wrath. With naught but strength and grit as his allies, He forged ahead beneath the open skies. No sheltered haven, no familial care, Yet in his heart, a fire burned, aware. Through solitary hours, his spirit grew, A resilient bloom, steadfast and true. He learned to navigate life's turbulent tide, As independence became his faithful guide. In iambic pentameter's rhythmic sway, The tale of Barrymore's youth takes its play. A child untamed, but with a noble flame, He braved the storms, each challenge he overcame. Though trials marked his path in early years, His spirit soared above all doubts and fears. In each footfall, a tale of strength untold, A young soul destined to break the mold. So let us ponder, in poetic rhyme, The resilience of Barrymore's early time. A child of fortitude, his own beacon bright, Who forged a path, defying starless night.

So it goes, dear listener, that among the myriad of things that sets man apart from his animal counterparts is the gift of gab and the mastery of language. To be a man is to be a creature of speech and discourse. The art of conversation holds a significant role in our lives. It can ease our sorrows and afflictions, amplify our delights and jubilations, and enhance our understanding of the world. Indeed, conversation is a powerful tool that allows us to convey our thoughts, emotions, and experiences with great significance. It is a valuable vehicle that propels us forward on our journey of self-discovery and communal growth.

Your face did not rot like the others—the co-pilot, for example, I saw him yesterday. His face is corn- mush: his wife and daughter, the poor ignorant people, stare as if he will compose soon. He was more wronged than Job. But your face did not rot like the others—it grew dark, and hard like ebony; the features progressed in their distinction. If I could cajole you to come back for an evening, down from your compulsive orbiting, I would touch you, read your face as Dallas, your hoodlum gunner, now, with the blistered eyes, reads his braille editions. I would touch your face as a disinterested scholar touches an original page. However frightening, I would discover you, and I would not turn you in; I would not make you face your wife, or Dallas, or the co-pilot, Jim. You could return to your crazy orbiting, and I would not try to fully understand what it means to you. All I know is this: when I see you, as I have seen you at least once every year of my life, spin across the wilds of the sky like a tiny, African god, I feel dead. I feel as if I were the residue of a stranger’s life, that I should pursue you. My head cocked toward the sky, I cannot get off the ground, and, you, passing over again, fast, perfect, and unwilling to tell me that you are doing well, or that it was mistake that placed you in that world, and me in this; or that misfortune placed these worlds in us.

I took my life and threw it on the skip,Reckoning the next-door neighbours wouldn’t mindIf my life hitched a lift to the council tipWith their dry rot and rubble. What you find With skips is – the whole community joins in.Old mattresses appear, doors kind of driftAlong with all that won’t fit in the binAnd what the bin-men can’t be fished to shift. I threw away my life, and there it layAnd grew quite sodden. `What a dreadful shame,’Clucked some old bag and sucked her teeth: ‘The wayThe young these days … no values … me, I blame…’ But I blamed no one. Quality controlHad loused it up, and that was that.‘Nough said. I couldn’t stick at home. I took a strollAnd passed the skip, and left my life for dead. Without my life, the beer was just as foul,The landlord still as filthy as his wife,The chicken in the basket was an owl,And no one said: `Ee, Jim-lad, whur’s thee life?’ Well, I got back that night the worse for wear,But still just capable of single vision ;Looked in the skip; my life – it wasn’t there!Some bugger’d nicked it – without my permission. Okay, so I got angry and beganTo shout, and woke the street. Okay. Okay!And I was sick all down the neighbour’s van.And I disgraced myself on the par-kay. And then … you know how if you’ve had a fewYou’ll wake at dawn, all healthy, like sea breezes,Raring to go, and thinking: `Clever you!You’ve got away with it.’ And then, oh Jesus, It hits you. Well, that morning, just at sixI woke, got up and looked down at the skip.There lay my life, still sodden, on the bricks;There lay my poor old life, arse over tip. Or was it mine? Still dressed, I went downstairsAnd took a long cool look. The truth was dawning.Someone had just exchanged my life for theirs.Poor fool, I thought – I should have left a warning. Some bastard saw my life and thought it nicerThan what he had. Yet what he’d had seemed fine.He’d never caught his fingers in the slicerThe way I’d managed in that life of mine. His life lay glistening in the rain, neglected,Yet still a decent, an authentic life.Some people I can think of, I reflectedWould take that thing as soon as you’d say Knife. It seemed a shame to miss a chance like that.I brought the life in, dried it by the stove.It looked so fetching, stretched out on the mat.I tried it on. It fitted, like a glove. And now, when some local bat drops off the twigAnd new folk take the house, and pull up floorsAnd knock down walls and hire some kind of bigContainer (say, a skip) for their old doors, I’ll watch it like a hawk, and every dayI’ll make at least – oh – half a dozen trips.I’ve furnished an existence in that way.You’d not believe the things you find on skips

Earlestown is named after Sir Hardman Earle (11 July 1792 – 25 January 1877) a slave owner whose family was steeped in the slave trade. He was the Chairman of the London and North Western Railway. Earlestown Town Hall is an imposing building, fronted by a war memorial. In 1962 the Beatles  visited Earlestown for a night gig and played at the town hall. On the  same night Newton Boys Club on Graffton Street was opened by Frankie  Vaughan for the local community.[6] Another significant building included the art-deco former Curzon cinema which was demolished in January 2010. Earlestown has a small but busy town centre with many shops including high-street outlets such as Tesco, Boots, Wilko and several high street banks alongside independent retailers,  bookmakers and fast-food takeaways. There are a range of traditional  pubs, such as The New Market, The Ram's Head, The Railway Inn, The  Griffin, and The Wellington. Earlestown is well served by many fast food outlets offering a good range of Indian and Chinese dishes as well as fish and chips and the ubiquitous McDonald's.  Most of the local restaurants are curry houses; Earlestown's 'curry  quarter-of-a-mile' on Queen Street has three Indian restaurants and a  Tandoori take-away.

When first I came down Yorkshire, Not many years ago. I met with a little Yorkshire lass, And I'd have you know, That she was so blithe, so buxom, So beautiful and gay, Now listen while I tell you, What he Daddy used to say. Oh treat me daughter decent, Don't do her any harm. And when I die I'll leave you both, Me tiny little farm. Me cow, me pigs, me sheep, me goats, Me stock, me field and barn. And all the little chickens in the garden Well first I came to court the girl, She was awful shy. She never said a blooming word, When other folks was by. But as soon as we were on our own, She bade me to name the day, Now listen while I tell you, What he Daddy used to say. Oh treat me daughter decent, Don't do her any harm. And when I die I'll leave you both, Me tiny little farm. Me cow, me pigs, me sheep, me goats, Me stock, me field and barn. And all the little chickens in the garden Well at last I wed this Yorkshire lass, So pleasing to me mind, And I did prove true to her, So she's proved true in kind. We have three bairns, there grown up now. There's a grandbairn on the way. And when I look into their eyes, I can hear their grandaddy say Oh treat me daughter decent, Don't do her any harm. And when I die I'll leave you both, Me tiny little farm. Me cow, me pigs, me sheep, me goats, Me stock, me field and barn. And all the little chickens in the garden.

My brother, is a wonderful guy. Even though he’s a little bit shy My brother, is a wonderful guy. He’s funny and smart, I cannot deny. He understands, the art of the of persuasion. And is ready to use it, at every occasion. He’s one of those guys, that is interesting and unique. With his original style, he’s one cool geek. Always determined, to achieve any goal. Blesses so many, with his beautiful soul. My brother, is a wonderful guy. I love him a lot, I’m not gonna lie.