Comments by "Nono Yorbusness" (@nonoyorbusness) on "History Debunked"
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Boris's speech:
We shall greet them on the beaches,
we shall greet them on the landing grounds, we shall meet them in the fields and in the streets,
we shall put them up in the hotels,
and army camps and let them roam freely,
To (terra roar rise) the local inhabitants,
We shall never (de port) them!
We shall totally surrender.
Sinking you into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by my governments perversion of medical science.
We will therefore disgrace ourselves, ignore our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Isle manages to last for a few more years, men will say,
'This was their most pathetic hour.'
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In Flanders Fields
BY JOHN MCCRAE
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
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In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
John McCrae
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Boris's speech:
We shall greet them on the beaches,
we shall greet them on the landing grounds, we shall meet them in the fields and in the streets,
we shall put them up in the hotels,
and army camps and let them roam freely,
To (terra roar rise) the local inhabitants,
We shall never (de port) them!
We shall totally surrender.
Sinking you into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by my governments perversion of medical science.
We will therefore disgrace ourselves, ignore our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Isle manages to last for a few more years, men will say,
'This was their most pathetic hour.'
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Boris's manifesto:
We shall greet them on the beaches,
we shall greet them on the landing grounds, we shall meet them in the fields and in the streets,
we shall put them up in the hotels,
and army camps and let them roam freely,
To (terra roar rise) the local inhabitants,
We shall never (de port) them!
We shall totally surrender.
Sinking you into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by my governments perversion of medical science.
We will therefore disgrace ourselves, ignore our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Isle manages to last for a few more years, men will say,
'This was their most pathetic hour.'
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@elainejohnson4352
This usurped throne of kings, this decieved isle,
This earth of møßquēs, this seat of hijabs,
This other Arabia, this demi-ßhi+hølé,
This ruined fortress, betrayed by narcissists for their gain.
Infested and on the brink of war,
This unhappy breed of men, this little world,
This defiled stone set in a fishless sea,
Which once served it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Exposed by treason to the malice of less happy lands,
This blighted plot, this earth, this blairite ruin, this England.
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Kahlil Gibran
1883 –1931
Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
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Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm,
Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns
The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames?
The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs,
The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames?--
This winter-eve is warm,
Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring,
The tender purple spray on copse and briers!
And that sweet city with her dreaming spires,
She needs not June for beauty's heightening,
Matthew Arnold.
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We don't need an introduction to critical race theory we need a conclusion, end, epilogue, finish ,finale, close, ending, departure, postscript, termination of critical race theory, asap!
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Boris's speech:
We shall greet them on the beaches,
we shall greet them on the landing grounds, we shall meet them in the fields and in the streets,
we shall put them up in the hotels,
and army camps and let them roam freely,
To (terra roar rise) the local inhabitants,
We shall never (de port) them!
We shall totally surrender.
Sinking you into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by my governments perversion of medical science.
We will therefore disgrace ourselves, ignore our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Isle manages to last for a few more years, men will say,
'This was their most pathetic hour.'
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Now is the winter of our discontent,
Made evil by this Blair of Fabian,
Bloody Broadcasters of Cuckery,
Have cheered him on his way,
Spinelessly creating this politically correct isle,
This earth of hijabs, this seat of mosques,
This other Arabia, this demi-shithole,
This fortress betrayed by traitors for themselves,
Infested and on the brink of war,
This unhappy breed of men, maligned by the unspeakably absurd,
On this defiled stone set in a fishless sea,
Which once served it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Now exposed by treason to the envious invasions of less happy lands,
This once blessed plot, this earth, this air, this Blairite-ruin.
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Winter
by William Shakespeare
When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
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Our revels now are ended.
All our creations, and achievements
As I foretold you, were all illusions, and
Are melted into air,
And like the baseless fabric of a vision,
The cloud-capping sky machines, the technological marvels,
Our civilisation, that spanned the great globe itself,
Yea, all which our children should inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like an insubstantial pageant fade,
Leave not a whisp behind.
We were such stuff
As dreams were made on;
Now our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
William Shakespeare (probably)!
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