Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.
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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween. (She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.) With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar, which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore, and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War. The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage, but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age. At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire, attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher), while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher); and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre. Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar, and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire, the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire. The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny, the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky. The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”, and bittersweet, from Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply: “The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply; the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.” The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies. Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise, and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries... End
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