25 And begging for love like some coward.
26 But who can speak for the God of love,
27 And the ways he raises his young?
28 Is one's faith all for nought if it asks too much?
29 Or is valor one jewel in God's holy crown?
30 And many may answer the answer is no,
31 aNo love that murders is real love at all,
32 But if that is your reason for scorning the Spics,
33 Ask yourself what you've done for the real love you hoard,
34 That's as hard as what Spics did for God.
CHAPTER 261 The way of the Frogs is a painting,
2 A vision of color and dash,
3 Obsessed with an ideal of bbeauty,
4 Transcending mere decorative trash.
5 Their canvas was open to all shades of life,
6 Since a cmaster must quicken the heart,
7 So they dipped their brushes in dmyriad pots,
8 And astonished the world with their art.
9 They captured romance as it breathed through the soul,
10 eWhether it ended in love or disaster;
11 fThey annointed the body with wisdom and charm,
12 And composed lovely scenes of the gsenses at play;
13 hThey painted lithe nymphs on pedestals,
14 As well as in the ihay,
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15 Then mixed some wit with morality,
16 And in a purely Gallic way,
17 Sketched a jlifted eyebrow,
18 And the klogic of dismay.
19 Yes, they knew how to paint,
20 All the colors of lwar,
21 And of mpeasants in chains,
22 And nvengeance galore.
23 They tried out the oblinding light of ambition,
24 pThe darkness of wanting endlessly more,
25 qThe yellow terror of tropical fevers,
26 rThe flickering red of a saint on fire,
27 sThe blue and the white of dead armies in snow,
28 tThe blackness of hearts when they yield to despair.
29 Now, a Frog with a brush may cause you to chuckle,
30 And reel off old jokes about uMaginot lines,
31 But their art is a model of human resilience,
32 And the glory of seeking romance at all times.
CHAPTER 271 The way of the Brits is a poem,
2 Heroic and epic in scope,
3 vFeet marching in time to a meter,
4 That asked wmore than most gods can give.
5 xTheir muse made them stronger, and braver, and harder,
6 Than men who know nothing of rhyme:
7 Each stanza was a ychallenge,
8 Matched against the ztest of time.
9 Each aageneration took its turn,
10 And wrote its lines and died:
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