"And homeless near a thousand homes I stood/and near a thousand tables, pined and wanted food." The most succinct critique of capitalism.
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I stan Wordsworth, have since 16, always will. And Blake. And Keats. Shelley can go fuck himself. Bryon is doing so at present and always.
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Poor baby Coleridge is vacillating about whether or not he wants to fuck himself, but he's writing some good criticism in the meantime.
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