Yeah, so teech sez we've gots to write a poem in da style of Whitman or Dickinson. So I sez...
Yeah, keep on talking, kiddo. You're just another brick in the wall. You're gonna go home and get beat within an inch of your life by your fat psychotic wife...
Actually, no. His wife isn't fat or psychotic (as far as I know.) And he is a nice guy. He likes the Red Sox! What can be so bad about a guy who likes the Red Sox?
Well, here's my poem in the style of Whitman.
Rolling near and climbing far,
Surmounting seas and dwarfing deserts,
Touching the sky mountains tower over us all.
Standing solid, firm, and insurmountable
They become beacons of strength.
Stones build into a hill,
The hill builds into a ridge,
The ridge becomes a mountain.
On and on the mountains stretch,
Fractal beauty unencumbered by scale.
The solemn giants sleep,
Content to be capped by snow;
They yield to cloud and wind.
Storm, quake and time combine;
They are the only forces that can yoke the beasts.