literary device of the week

i am like a little ant that walk round no one can see me only me i look up to talk to them i file like i don't bi long there my hare is not the big and that little is in the middle it looks like a wave i walk the same as other people i don`t talk much only if they tell me some time i look happy some times but some times i am not i love to hive hugs but only if you ask i am the only me in this world and no one can ripples me because i am sweet like Honey

i don`t now if this is good

Epic Poems are long, serious poems that tells the story of a heroic figure. Some of the most famous epic poems are the Iliad and the Odyssey by Homer and the epic poem
of The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ( 1807 - 1882 ) .

hiare is a ex: a epic poem by Hiawatha's Departure
from The Song of Hiawatha
by
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

By the shore of Gitchie Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.

or


Greetings Gudo, and a warm salute,
from a harried object of pursuit.
Yon blackguards four do mean me ill,
so draw thy sword, I'll ink my quill.

And put on parchment deeds of glory,
gougings, stabbings fit for story.
Lop you off a head or two,
my audience so to cheer anew.

Soon four of you, my would-be woes,
will be but meat for carrion crows.
When mailèd fist meets beetled brow
you'll buy the farm and have a cow.

Hurry then, my knightly friend,
and start a blackguard-beating trend.
See their eyes so bright with fear,
their grins that know their ends be near!

Lunge you right, that scoundrel ninny
doth creep 'pon you like tortellini
down the throat of a tall giraffe.
Strike quick, old bean, cleave him in half!

Bad show, Gudo, much much too slow!
I've seen a mudwyrm faster go.
My faith doth wane, and says my pen -
thy sword Swiftbird be dubbed Slow-Hen.

I still see standing four of the curs.
Be you fighting or conducting tours
of a boulder's most concealing side
or of that tree behind which you hide.

Charge ahead and lay them straight!
While I with words their kin berate.
Aye, you swamp-sired sons of toads
hear my charming barbèd odes

To your dames so fat and foul
They are why Death wears a cowl,
and though your fathers sinless be
they were apes hanging from a tree.

Say I Gudo, and Gudo again,
a fighting posture you should maintain!
See you how that outraged rogue
With a rusty mace made in Vologue

Has now your head so sorely clipped
that from your horse you now have slipped,
and soon upon the ground so hard
you'll lie as still as a lump of lard...

and it talk about the gods