Lars Hillary of Jew York
By the Six Trillion she swore
That the great house of Clinton
Should suffer wrong no more
By the Six Trillion she swore it,
And named a trysting day,
And bade her messengers ride forth,
East and west and south and north,
To summon her array.
East and west and south and north
The messengers ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage
Have heard the trumpet’s blast.
Shame on the false American
Who lingers in his home,
When Hillary of Jew York
Is on the march for Washington.
The bull-men and the goyim
Are pouring in amain
From many a stately market-place,
From many a fruitful plain,
From many a lonely hamlet,
Which, hid by beech and pine,
Like an eagle’s nest, hangs on the crest
Of purple Appalachian;
From lordly Monticello,
Where scowls the far-famed hold
Piled by the hands of niggers
For godlike Jefferson;
From seagirt Florida,
Whose sentinels descry
Sails like snowy mountain-tops
As boats of refugees arrive;
From the proud market of L.A.,
Queen of the western waves,
Where ride Seattle’s trannies
Upon boys not old enough to shave;
From where sweet Ohio wanders
Through corn and vines and flowers;
From where New York lifts to heaven
Her diadem of towers.
Tall are the oaks whose acorns
Drop in dark Mississippi’s rill;
Fat are the slags that champ the boughs
Of the Southern Hills;
Beyond all memes Colorado
Is to the union dear;
Best of all pools the cuckold loves
The great Michiganian mere.
But now no stroke of redneck
Is heard by Mississippi’s rill;
No horndog tracks the fat slags’ path
Up the Southern Hills;
Unwatched along Colorado
Grazes the milk-white queer;
Unharmed the beta male may dip
In the Michiganian mere.
The harvests of Nebraska,
This year old men shall reap;
This year, young boys in Idaho
Shall fuck the struggling sheep;
And in the vats of Napa,
This year, the must shall foam
Round the white feet of laughing whores
Whose sires have marched to Washington.
There be thirty chosen merchants,
The most cunning in the land,
Who always by Lars Hillary
Both morn and evening stand:
Evening and morn the Thirty
Have turned the verses o’er
Traced from the Talmud on linen white
By mighty kikes of yore.
And with one voice the Thirty
Have their glad answer given:
“Go forth, go forth, Lars Hillary;
Go forth, beloved of Jerusalem;
Go, and return in glory
To the Capitol’s stately dome;
And deposit in our coffers,
All the gold in Washington.”
Cool
And now hath every forum
Sent up her tale of men;
The /pol/ are fourscore thousand,
The Stormfront are thousands ten.
Before the gates of Arlington
Is met this great array.
A proud womyn was Lars Hillary
Upon the trysting day.
For all the progressive armies
Were ranged beneath her eye,
And many a convicted dindu,
And many a transgendered guy;
And with a mighty following
To join the muster came
The Jew York prevaricator
Princess of America’s shame.
But by the white Potomac
Was tumult and affright;
From all the spacious Fairfax,
To Washington white folks took their flight.
For miles around the city,
The throng stopped up the ways;
A fearful sight it was to see
Through two long nights and days.
For aged whites on crutches,
And women great with white child,
And white mothers sobbing over babes
That clung to them and smiled,
And sick men borne in stretchers
By white men true and brave,
And troops of sun-burned farmer men
With but a few Glocks and AKs,
And droves of Fords and Chevies
Laden with bullets and IEDs,
And endless flocks of blue-pilled sheeple,
And endless herds of normies,
And endless trains of 18-wheelers
That sat low beneath the weight
Of corn-sacks and of household goods,
Choked every road out of the fallen state.
Now, from the Jefferson Memorial,
Could the fearful burgers spy
The line of blazing villages
Where every white was made to die.
The Janitors of the City,
They sat all night and day,
For every hour some sentry came
With tidings of dismay.
To eastward and to westward
Have spread the progressive bands;
Nor house, nor fence, nor cuckshed
In Arlington stands.
Bernie down to Alexandria
Hath enriched all the plain;
Holder hath stormed Langley,
And the stout Navy SEALs are slain.
I wis, in all the internet,
There was no heart so bold,
But sore it ached, and fast it beat,
When that ill news was told.
Forthwith up rose the Mod,
Up rose the Janitors all;
In haste they girded up their gowns,
And hied them to the Mall.
They held a council standing,
Before the 14th Street Bridge;
Short time was there, ye well may guess,
For bans to be managed.
Out spake the Mod roundly:
“The bridge must straight go down;
For, since Langley is lost,
Nought else can save the town.”
Just then a scout came flying,
All wild with haste and fear:
“To arms! To arms! Sir Moderator:
The Mexican hordes are here.”
On the low hills to southward
The Mod fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust
Rise fast along the sky.
And nearer fast and nearer
Doth the Red whirlwind come;
And louder still and still more loud,
From underneath that rolling cloud,
Is heard the negroes’ war-note proud,
The bassline’s tremendous hum.
And plainly and more plainly
Now through the gloom appears,
Far to the left and far to the right,
In broken gleams of dark-blue light,
The long array of drilldoes bright,
The long array of queers.
And plainly and more plainly,
Above that glimmering line,
Now might ye see the banners
And the liberal picket signs;
But the banner of the DNC
Was highest of them all,
The terror of white tax-payer,
The terror of us all.
And plainly and more plainly
Now might the burgers know,
By port and vest, by color and crest
Each warlike non-white foe.
There Anita of Toronto
Seen with her eunuch guards;
And Jon Leibowitz with the six-point shield,
Girt with the brand no goy may wield,
Maddow with her harem of lesbos,
And cuck Bernie from his shithole
With his legion of retards.
Fast by the DNC banner,
O’erlooking all the war,
Lars Hillary of Jew York
Sat in her armored car.
By the right wheel marched Pelosi,
Princess of California’s shame;
And by the left false Rubio
Republican only in name.
please bamp if ur enjoying
But when the face of Rubio
Was seen among the foes,
A yell that rent the firmament
From all the city arose.
On the house-tops was no woman
But spat towards him and hissed,
No child but screamed out curses,
At the treacherous cyborg git.
But the Mod’s brow was sad,
And the Mod’s speech was low,
And darkly looked he from the Mall,
Upon the unholy foe.
“Their legions will be upon us
Before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge,
What hope to save the town?”
Then out spake brave Trumpatius,
The King of Real Estate:
“To every man upon this earth,
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the yuge wall along the border,
And the death of the false Islamic god,
“And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
Him on her Russian breast,
And for the pure white maidens
Who tend America’s eternal flame,
To save them from vile Harry Reid
Who wants their land for his own gain?
“Haul down the bridge, Sir Mod,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?”
Then out spake Vladimir Putin;
A Russian proud was he:
“Yo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And slay degenerates with thee.”
And out spake Zyklon Garrison;
A fetish for kike blood had he;
“I will abide on thy left side,
And gas ‘em all with thee.”
“Trumpatius,” quoth the Mod,
“As thou sayest, so let it be.”
And straight against the great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.
For white men facing such peril
Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life
In the brave days of old.
Then none was for a party;
Then all were for the ethno-state;
Then the great man helped the poor,
And the poor man loved the great:
Then lands were fairly portioned;
Then spoils were fairly sold:
The Aryans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.
Now /pol/lack is to /pol/bro
More hateful than a foe,
And the newfags beard the autists,
And the jannies ban the trolls.
As we wax hot in faction,
In the race war we wax cold:
Wherefore men fight not as they fought
In the brave days of old.
Now while the Three were tightening
Their rifle slings on their backs,
The Mod was the foremost man
To take in hand an axe:
And An-Caps mixed with Nat-Socs
Seized hatchet, bar, and C4
And smote upon the bridge above,
And placed the charges below.
what is this? :S
Meanwhile in the Commie army,
Which showed no signs of dread,
Come flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright
Of a broad sea of red.
Four hundred trumpets sounded
A peal of Satanic glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
And tasers advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly toward the bridge’s head,
Where stood the dauntless Three.
The Three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter,
From all the liberals rose:
And forth three pinkos came spurring
Before that deep array;
To earth they sprang, their mace they drew,
And lifted high their manifestos, and flew
To win the narrow way;
>>72646295
The Lays of Trump's Washington
El Rato from chink Canada,
Lord of the Bankster Lies;
And Biden, whose eight hundred slaves
He uses as if they were but swine;
And Bill, long to Hillary
Vassal in affairs of state,
Who took to bed for hours
Many whores, with the use of his power
And paid them off with money that was ours
O’er the desk of the President.
Short Vladimir hurled down El Rato
Into the river beneath;
Zyklon Ben sprayed gas on Biden
Melting his entire face except his teeth;
At Bill brave Trumpatius
Darted one fiery thrust;
And the powerful hillbilly
Was thereby released from his lust.
Then Supreme Court Justice Ginsberg
Rushed on the dauntless Three;
And George Soros of Europe,
The enemy of free speech;
And Zoë Quin of Depression Quest,
Whose pussy could scarcely be used more,
The great wild whore that lived in total sin
Amidst the e-gaming sodomy den,
Her wretched twat slain by countless men,
Along the Pacific shore.
Zkylon Ben smote down Quinn:
Putin laid Ginsberg low:
Right to the heart of Soros
Trumpatius sent a blow.
“Lie there,” he cried, “fowl Commie!
No more, aghast and pale,
From the Pentagon’s walls the crowd shall mark
The Track of thy dying bark.
No more of Zion’s hinds shall fly
To woods and caverns when they spy
Thy thrice accursed sail.”
But now no sound of laughter
Was heard among the foes.
A wild ebonic clamour
From all the vanguard rose.
Three cars’ lengths form the entrance
Halted that deep array,
And for a space no trans-creature came forth
To win the narrow way.
But hark! The cry is Leibowitz:
And lo! The ranks divide;
And the great Lord of Viacom
Comes with his semitic stride.
Upon his effeminate shoulders
Clangs loud the six-point shield,
And in his hands he shakes the brand
Which no goy may wield.
He smirked on those bold Patriots
A smirk serene and high;
He eyed the flinching cuckolds,
And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, “The she-wolf’s litter
Stand savagely at bay:
But will ye dare to follow,
If Leibowitz clears the way?”
Then, whirling up his shechita
With both hands to the height,
He rushed against Trumpatius,
And smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Trumpatius
Right deftly turned the blow.
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:
The degenerates raised a joyful cry
To see Trump’s red blood flow.
Trump reeled, and on Garrison
He leaned one breathing-space;
Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds,
Sprang right at Leibowitz’s face.
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet
So fierce a thrust he sped,
The Trump sword stood a hand-breadth out
Behind the Semite’s head.
And the great Lord of Viacom
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Garrison’s ranch
A thick and ashy smoke:
Far o’er the crashing forest
The giant arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low,
Gaze on the blasted head.
jesus christ, what is going on here
On Leibowitz’s throat Trumpatius
Right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain,
Ere he wrenched out the steel.
“And see,” he cried, “the welcome,
Illegal rats, that waits you here!
What noble nig comes next
To taste our patriotic cheer?”
But at his haughty challenge
A sullen murmur ran,
Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread,
Along the glittering van.
There lacked not men of prowess,
Nor men of low-born race;
For all Hillary’s noblest
Were round the fatal place.
But all Hillary’s noblest
Felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses,
In the path the dauntless Three:
And, from the ghastly entrance
Where those bold white warriors stood,
All shrank, like boys who unaware,
Ranging the hood for a bull to share
Where, growling low, a nigger-bear
Lies amidst bones and blood.
Was none who would be foremost
To lead such dire attack;
But those behind cried, “Forward!”
And those before cried, “Back!”
And backward now and forward
Wavers the deep array;
And on the tossing sea of queers
To and frow the standards reel;
And the victorious trumpet-peal
Dies fitfully away.
/lit/ meets /pol/, and it's not even ball-season.
>>72646913
Bwekfast!
Yet one man for one moment
Strode out before the crowd;
Well known was he to all the Three,
And they gave him greeting loud.
“Now welcome, welcome, Rubio!
Now welcome to thy home!
Why dost thou stay, and turn away?
Here lies the road to Washington.”
Thrice looked he at the city;
Thrice looked he at the dead;
And thrice came on in fury,
And thrice turned back in dread:
And, white with fear and hatred,
Scowled at the narrow way
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,
The boldest leftists lay.
Keep going OP this is great
But meanwhile axe and lever
Have manfully been plied;
And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.
“Come back, come back, Trumpatius!”
Loud cried the Janitors all.
“Back, Putin! Back Zyklon!
Back, ere the ruin fall!”
Back darted Vladimir Putin;
Garrison darted back:
And, as they passed, beneath their feet
The 14th Street Bridge began to crack.
But when they turned their faces,
And on the farther shore
Saw brave Trumpatius stand alone,
They would have crossed once more.
But with a crash like thunder
Fell every loosened beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
Lay right athwart the stream:
And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the walls of Washington,
As to the highest building-tops
Was splashed the crystal foam.
And, like a horse unbroken
When first he feels the rein,
The furious river struggled hard,
And tossed his tawny mane,
And burst the curb and bounded,
Rejoicing to be free,
And whirling down, in fierce career,
Battlement, and plank, and pier,
Rushed headlong to the sea.
Alone stood brave Trumpatius,
But constant still in mind;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
And the broad flood behind.
“Down with him!” cried false Marco,
With a smile on his pale face.
“Now yield thee,” cried Lars Hillary,
“Now yield thee to our grace.”
Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see;
Nought spake he to Lars Hillary,
To Marco naught spake he;
But he saw on G Street
The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by Washington.
“Oh, Potomac! Father Potomac!
To whom us Nordics pray,
A nigger’s life, a nigger’s arms,
Take thou in charge this day!”
So he spake, and speaking sheathed
The good sword by his side,
And with his rifle on his back,
Plunged headlong in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrow
Was heard from either bank;
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With parted lips and straining eyes,
Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges,
They saw his crest appear,
All Washington sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of degeneracy
Could scarce forbear to cheer.
But fiercely ran the current,
Swollen high by months of rain:
And fast his blood was flowing;
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,
And spent with changing blows:
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.
Never, I ween, did swimmer,
In such an evil case,
Struggle through such a raging flood
Safe to the landing place:
But his limbs were borne up bravely
By the brave heart within,
And our good father Potomac
Bare bravely up his chin.
“Curse on him!” quoth false Marco;
“Will not the villain drown?
But for this stay, ere close of a day
We should have sacked the town!”
“Heaven help him!” quoth Lars Hillary
“And bring him safe to shore;
For such a gallant feat of arms
Was never seen before.”
And now he feels the bottom;
Now on dry earth he stands;
Now round him throng the Janitors;
To press his gory hands;
And now, with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through 14th Street
Borne by the joyous crowd.
They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right,
As much as two strong doxes
Could dox from mourn till night;
And they made a molten image,
And set it up on high,
And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.
It stand in the Capitol
Plain for all white folk to see;
Trumpatius with his rifle,
Halting upon one knee:
And underneath is written,
In letters all of gold,
How valiantly he kept the bridge
And Made America Great Again like old.
And still his name sounds stirring
Unto the men of Washington,
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them
To charge the leftist drones;
And wives still pray to Odin
For boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave days of old.
And in the nights of winter,
When the cold north winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest’s din,
And the good logs of Appalachia
Roar louder yet within;
When the oldest cask is opened,
And the largest lamp is lit;
When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the kid turns on the spit;
When young and old in circle
Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets, and the lads are shaping bows;
When the goodman mends his armor,
And trim’s his helmet’s plume;
When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,
How well Trumpatius kept the bridge
From the leftist foes.
what the fuck am I even
OP!!!!!!
>it's metric
I LOVE YOU THIS IS WHAT POETRY NEEDS RIGHT NOW
this is surely something.
Perfection.
>>72649000
>Man makes an epic metric poem
>putting vigor into a dying Aryan art form
>awoo poster demeans it
Typical weeaboo scum
Glad you guys liked, feel free to save and repost. Just to be clear, it's not an original piece, its an adaptation of the "The Lays of Ancient Rome" by 19th century British writer and statesmen Thomas Babington Macaulay.
I'm thinking of making one or two tweaks then sending it to AryanTroll/TyrantFashister to see if he'll do a dramatic reading.
>>72649697
BTW,
>Wiki: Thomas Babington Macaulay
>Political party: Whigs (British political party)
>Ideology: Conservatism, protectionism, radicalism
>mfw
So this is poetry?
>>72650016
It's pottery
>>72649697
adaptation or not
This is a magnificent piece.
Do you write your own verse?
A U T I S M
>>72650283
I never have before, I'm more of a prose guy. Doubt I have the skill for an original that even approaches this in greatness.
>>72650591
M O R O C C AN
>>72649697
This was brilliant
>>72650862
fuck off poo in loo namefag
Fucking kek at this thread
Someone screencap it
>>72651289
I literally stopped supporting Trump because of this poo in loo being accepted by Trump general.
>>72651805
I support trump and I still despise poo in loos.
Who cares what the genfags think?
>>72651805
>bandwagon casual
