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Octav Bibere

God created man as though he forgot the monkey inside!

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The Monster Inside Me

vs.1 When I walk down through Alligator Alley,
I really don't know what to do with the
Big, gigantic dragons that blow fire out their mouth,
And everyday, it seems as if they're aimin' it at me.
That's when the monster inside of me comes out,
That's when I jump right back and make 'em scream and shout.
All the wild animals come out to join in,
Man, you gotta believe within
The monster inside me!
vs.2 When I'm with all the wicked creatures in this world,
Don't wanna p-s me off or mess with me.
The huge and freaky madness of them withhold,
And every night, it seems as if they never leave me be.
Bridge: Now, when the time comes,
You can tag along.
But for the time being, it's too dangerous,
I gotta go solo!
(chorus) x 2
Yeah, there's a monster
Inside me! !

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Difference Between God and Man

The world,
God created
In full six days,
Man is competent
To destroy it
In six minutes.

(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)

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When You walked into the world from God to man

When You walked into the world,
from God to man,
nobody really realized
what kind of offering You were making

when You got involved with man
bringing healing to pain,
with a slapping whip drove out
the white plastered priests

and in astonishment
people saw Your love,
when You with the last bit of life,
near to death,
still spoke of mercy

and asked Your Father forgiveness
for them that in humiliation
with pain were murdering You,
before the wide universe
man merciless had portrayed the depths of sin.

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God Created The Lamb And The Tiger Also

When God created the world, called it 'GOOD',
He didn't say some is good, some is bad, but this is our lively hood.
That is how here is only the LAW, where we can choose,
Life or malediction, positive or negative, hope or fear or we loose.

Some was created to follow the law,
Some to play out the law as a flaw,
Everything is just a passing play on the stage,
Go on, face your lessons, get wiser with age.

After many experiences you can figure out your part,
Whatever it is your part, play it with all your heart.
Do not try to be what you are not created,
Just follow your inner feelings, do not complicate, be right spirited.

However, the wise will find the way to fate,
Will choose life and never malediction & never hate,
They will live in perfect harmony,
No matter what goes on in the surrounding irony.

Remember, we cannot force the world for our will,
We can change only ourselves, then will disappear all the ill.

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God Created Human Perfection

In the beginning
God created
human perfection
and it was good

but paradise bites
when free choice
involves poison
sharp serpent fangs

of cunning deception
innocence lacks experience
even in the Almighty’s
presence light are we lost

is themed in countless
stories unless God’s precise word
is with wisdom obeyed
in adversity saints saved prayed

all mortal souls fall life short
of the undeserved glory of God
salvation granted is not earned
it is undeserved glory from God

our saving graces these themes
have and will continue to be
written upon countless times
defined in affirmation of God

confusion lies in deceptive values
material gain at any cost opposed
to our creator’s religious principles
stone written right and wrong laws.

Religion and God has defined
guidelines to illuminate truth
morality which time and history
has over ages proven repeatedly

we ignore at our own peril lost
perceive hypocritical humanity
through the divine eyes of God
while still retaining human heart

then wonder woe deceitful man
at immense pain human creation
gives our God marvel at God’s
love in offering grace salvation.

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Still God Over All

There is a God, indeed my friend, as all shall see come the end,
The God of love, who sent His Son, into this world for everyone,
Everyone’s Sovereign Creator, was sent to be the world’s Savior,
Though a God of love, He is just, God in whom we need to trust.

Although a God we cannot see, He is sovereign over all Eternity,
Creator of the heavenly sphere, and all of that we see down here,
The Creator of all we see on earth, God behind every human birth,
Creator of all the animal world, and all around us He has unfurled.

In His image, God created man, a greater part of His eternal plan,
Created for fellowship with Him, then, Satan seduced man to sin,
This had separated man from God, so He cursed this earthly sod,
Although Satan caused man to fall, God, is still The Lord over all!

As Creator, God made the move, and man’s fall God did reprove,
With separation, from sinful man, but, redemption was in His plan,
As God would provide restoration, of the world through Salvation,
And fellowship could be restored, through Jesus Christ, The Lord.

Today man is accountable to Him, as we are creatures born in sin,
And all must come to Christ Jesus, Who, took on sin for all of us,
Justifying man at the cross of Calvary, so man could live eternally,
Reconciled to a Holy God above, through His Just and Holy Love.

(Copyright ©09/2011)

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Rurally God Created The Loveliest Rose

Rurally God created the loveliest rose
that blooms by itself in the veldt
where the hillocks in the distance touches the horizon.

In her kitchen there are trays full of rusks
where she is working from before sunrise,
that the visitors later claim as booty

and she is busy with her work
until the last tray comes out of the oven.
Rurally God created the loveliest rose

where se sprouts out in the veldt
and when you visit her
where she is working from before sunrise

she almost possessively guards her rusks
and her farm is her own property
where the hillocks in the distance touches the horizon.

The farmstead lies like a rectangle,
she is prepared for almost anything
and when you visit her,

you note that in her Eva’s beauty has come to perfection,
that time and again she astonishes you with her loveliness.
Rurally God created the loveliest rose,

she gives new meaning to attractiveness,
with her teasing she spares no one,
she is prepared for almost anything,

but her mother is miserable like a fire-belching dragon
and you have to be at your wits or she will turn you around her finger
where the hillocks in the distance touches the horizon.

and she’s a vixen and leaves every suitor perplexed
when she sparkles womanly,
with her teasing she spares no one

and sometimes it seems as if she has too many suitors
but still she cannot disguise her feelings.
Rurally God created the loveliest rose
where the hillocks in the distance touches the horizon.

and that little darling has charmed me.
In her kitchen there are trays full of rusks
(when she sparkles womanly)
that the visitors later claim as booty.

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God's Most Humble Poet & Soldier For The Lord!


I'm God's most humble poet
Whose poems have meter and rhyme.
Stories of love, faith, hate, honor and duty,
Obedience, war, heroes, history and crime.

I've performed my gift on T.V. and radio
Before millions I've never met.
Preached my praise of God and country
With 465 poems on the net.

Satan's soldiers, shepherds and bards
Spew forth their foulness and grief.
They attack the joy and goodness of man
Dishonoring life, family, country and belief.

Prospering through work, love and conviction
Enables us to remain whole and how we should be.
Fortifying our soul with fulfillment of faith
Lets our worst tribulations be shouldered by Thee.

Moses, Samson, David, Solomon and Jonah
All failed God in their own human way.
He chose to forgive them and bless their powers
So they might dwell in hearts of man today.

Without God's grace, wisdom and glorious domain
There's no doubt all would soon cease to survive.
Through purpose, morals and Christian conviction
We are able to transform and keep hope alive.


I'm a soldier for the Lord
Who's been up and who's been down
Though while on the battlefield
I have never turned around.

I face more than flesh and blood
With the devil's evil hoard.
But they shall not steal my soul
For I swing my Lord's swift sword.

I wear all of God's armor
With helmet, breastplate and shield.
As Satan's arrows fly by
From his archers of the field.

The devil casts his dark net
Over any he may charm.
He'll lead them from salvation
With his hands upon their arm.

I battle evil daily
And I pray that you'll join me.
We're not alone in this world
For we're loved and watched by Thee.

Tom's 465 Poems Are Free To Share!
By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web!

Tom Zart
http: // f=38

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The Fall of Man

The Fall of Man.

We study the Holocaust at school.
The Catastrophe, ”
the Jews have deemed it
in their language.
I write, “Shoah” on the board.
We watch a video.
They gasp at the pictures, the horror.
Nancy Bowman
ever the patriot, affirms:
“I’m glad I live when and where I do. We would never let something like that
happen nowadays.”

I flip on CNN when I get home:

The knobs of knees and forearms
cut angles from the thick, dusty air;
the inner thighs—
the part we American women
watch so closely
for overgrowth—
have sunken away and,
if the legs were pressed together,
a gaping oval would still separate them there.

the hairless arms are riddled with
sharp bone
in places no bones should be.
tainted white buds
of infectious, curdled mucous
spring up, spotted, across what may have been
shins—or necks, once—
like aged yellow blossoms
sprouting from the potatoes
I was saving for a special meal...
while I gorged on the other seventy-five dollars of groceries
I bought
for the week

They starved.

the balls of knotted brown rubber
the tangled configurations of
a crooked finger here,
a distended, vacant bowl of something like a stomach there,
all joints and
wiry turns,
lie balled up in that corner there,
another pile of knots in this corner here—
closer to the cameras,
whose bulbs reflect in pools of urine,
the sticky film that makes a bed.

“Thank God we found them, ” says the Marine.
“Where will they go from here? ” inquires the newswoman,
all charity and American pity
and good will,
wrapped up in her leather jacket,
her round face aglow against
the grimy backdrop
of desperation,
of the tearing of God from Man.

She is very concerned.
The Marine’s jaw slacks
as he drops his head
to survey the degeneration, the unraveling evolution,
the guests at this funeral for hope.
He reaches slightly for a tiny,
tortured, finger-like stick
clinging to the crib railing—he tries to re-connect,
to fix the fall, perhaps. (Michelangelo might be so proud.)
The finger is too timid, though,
too weak to answer back.
It is tired,
too tired,
and the branchy limb
slips back into its
easy isolation.

It is such a comfort to know, then, Nancy,
that we would never let something like that happen

A damned good thing.

I flip the TV off
and go back
to eating my dinner.

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Jonathan Swift

Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D.

As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew
From Nature, I believe 'em true:
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.
This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast:
'In all distresses of our friends,
We first consult our private ends;
While Nature, kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us.'

If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes
Our equal rais'd above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you
But would not have him stop my view.
Then let him have the higher post:
I ask but for an inch at most.

If in a battle you should find
One, whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,
A champion kill'd, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?

Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without:
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to see
His brethren write as well as he?
But rather than they should excel,
He'd wish his rivals all in hell.

Her end when emulation misses,
She turns to envy, stings and hisses:
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.

Vain human kind! fantastic race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
'Tis all on me a usurpation.
I have no title to aspire;
Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a line,
But with a sigh I wish it mine;
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in six;
It gives me such a jealous fit,
I cry, 'Pox take him and his wit!'

Why must I be outdone by Gay
In my own hum'rous biting way?

Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refin'd it first, and show'd its use.

St. John, as well as Pultney, knows
That I had some repute for prose;
And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
If they have mortify'd my pride,
And made me throw my pen aside;
If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em,
Have I not reason to detest 'em?

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thy gifts; but never to my friend:
I tamely can endure the first,
But this with envy makes me burst.

Thus much may serve by way of proem:
Proceed we therefore to our poem.

The time is not remote, when I
Must by the course of nature die;
When I foresee my special friends
Will try to find their private ends:
Tho' it is hardly understood
Which way my death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak:
'See, how the Dean begins to break!
Poor gentleman, he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.
That old vertigo in his head
Will never leave him till he's dead.
Besides, his memory decays:
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind:
Forgets the place where last he din'd;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er;
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit?
But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
Faith, he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter:
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another set be found.

'For poetry he's past his prime:
He takes an hour to find a rhyme;
His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen;-
But there's no talking to some men!'

And then their tenderness appears,
By adding largely to my years:
'He's older than he would be reckon'd
And well remembers Charles the Second.

'He hardly drinks a pint of wine;
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.
His stomach too begins to fail:
Last year we thought him strong and hale;
But now he's quite another thing:
I wish he may hold out till spring.'

Then hug themselves, and reason thus:
'It is not yet so bad with us.'

In such a case, they talk in tropes,
And by their fears express their hopes:
Some great misfortune to portend,
No enemy can match a friend.
With all the kindness they profess,
The merit of a lucky guess
(When daily 'How d'ye's' come of course,
And servants answer, 'Worse and worse!')
Would please 'em better, than to tell,
That, 'God be prais'd, the Dean is well.'
Then he who prophecy'd the best
Approves his foresight to the rest:
'You know I always fear'd the worst,
And often told you so at first.'
He'd rather choose that I should die,
Than his prediction prove a lie.
Not one foretells I shall recover;
But all agree to give me over.

Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain
Just in the parts where I complain,
How many a message would he send?
What hearty prayers that I should mend?
Inquire what regimen I kept,
What gave me ease, and how I slept?
And more lament when I was dead,
Than all the sniv'llers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear;
For though you may mistake a year,
Though your prognostics run too fast,
They must be verify'd at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive!
'How is the Dean?'-'He's just alive.'
Now the departing prayer is read;
'He hardly breathes.'-'The Dean is dead.'
Before the passing-bell begun,
The news thro' half the town has run.
'O, may we all for death prepare!
What has he left? and who's his heir?'-
'I know no more than what the news is;
'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses.'-
'To public use! a perfect whim!
What had the public done for him?
Mere envy, avarice, and pride:
He gave it all-but first he died.
And had the Dean, in all the nation,
No worthy friend, no poor relation?
So ready to do strangers good,
Forgetting his own flesh and blood?'

Now Grub-Street wits are all employ'd;
With elegies the town is cloy'd:
Some paragraph in ev'ry paper
To curse the Dean or bless the Drapier.

The doctors, tender of their fame,
Wisely on me lay all the blame:
'We must confess his case was nice;
But he would never take advice.
Had he been rul'd, for aught appears,
He might have liv'd these twenty years;
For, when we open'd him, we found
That all his vital parts were sound.'

From Dublin soon to London spread,
'Tis told at Court, the Dean is dead.

Kind Lady Suffolk in the spleen
Runs laughing up to tell the Queen.
The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good,
Cries, 'Is he gone! 'tis time he should.
He's dead, you say; why, let him rot:
I'm glad the medals were forgot.
I promis'd them, I own; but when?
I only was the Princess then;
But now, as consort of a king,
You know, 'tis quite a different thing.'

Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,
Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy:
'Why, is he dead without his shoes?'
Cries Bob, 'I'm sorry for the news:
O, were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will!
Or had a mitre on his head,
Provided Bolingbroke were dead!'

Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains:
Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains!
And then, to make them pass the glibber,
Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
He'll treat me as he does my betters,
Publish my will, my life, my letters:
Revive the libels born to die;
Which Pope must bear, as well as I.

Here shift the scene, to represent
How those I love my death lament.
Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.

St. John himself will scarce forbear
To bite his pen, and drop a tear.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
'I'm sorry-but we all must die!'
Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise,
All fortitude of mind supplies:
For how can stony bowels melt
In those who never pity felt?
When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod,
Resigning to the will of God.

The fools, my juniors by a year,
Are tortur'd with suspense and fear;
Who wisely thought my age a screen,
When death approach'd, to stand between:
The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling;
They mourn for me without dissembling.

My female friends, whose tender hearts
Have better learn'd to act their parts,
Receive the news in doleful dumps:
'The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?)
Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!
(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)
Six deans, they say, must bear the pall:
(I wish I knew what king to call.)
Madam, your husband will attend
The funeral of so good a friend.
No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight:
And he's engag'd to-morrow night:
My Lady Club would take it ill,
If he should fail her at quadrille.
He lov'd the Dean-(I lead a heart)
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time was come: he ran his race;
We hope he's in a better place.'

Why do we grieve that friends should die?
No loss more easy to supply.
One year is past; a different scene!
No further mention of the Dean;
Who now, alas! no more is miss'd,
Than if he never did exist.
Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo!
Departed:-and his works must follow;
Must undergo the common fate;
His kind of wit is out of date.
Some country squire to Lintot goes,
Inquires for 'Swift in Verse and Prose.'
Says Lintot, 'I have heard the name;
He died a year ago.'-'The same.'
He searcheth all his shop in vain.
'Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;
I sent them with a load of books,
Last Monday to the pastry-cook's.
To fancy they could live a year!
I find you're but a stranger here.
The Dean was famous in his time,
And had a kind of knack at rhyme.
His way of writing now is past;
The town hath got a better taste;
I keep no antiquated stuff,
But spick and span I have enough.
Pray do but give me leave to show 'em;
Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem.
This ode you never yet have seen,
By Stephen Duck, upon the Queen.
Then here's a letter finely penn'd
Against the Craftsman and his friend:
It clearly shows that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.
Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,
And Mr. Henley's last oration.
The hawkers have not got 'em yet:
Your honour please to buy a set?

'Here's Woolston's tracts, the twelfth edition;
'Tis read by every politician:
The country members, when in town,
To all their boroughs send them down;
You never met a thing so smart;
The courtiers have them all by heart:
Those maids of honour who can read
Are taught to use them for their creed.
The rev'rend author's good intention
Hath been rewarded with a pension.
He doth an honour to his gown,
By bravely running priestcraft down:
He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester,
That Jesus was a grand imposter;
That all his miracles were cheats,
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats:
The church had never such a writer;
A shame he hath not got a mitre!'

Suppose me dead; and then suppose
A club assembled at the Rose ;
Where, from discourse of this and that,
I grow the subject of their chat.
And while they toss my name about,
With favour some, and some without,
One, quite indiff'rent in the cause,
My character impartial draws:

'The Dean, if we believe report,
Was never ill receiv'd at Court.
As for his works in verse and prose
I own myself no judge of those;
Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em:
But this I know, all people bought 'em.
As with a moral view design'd
To cure the vices of mankind:
His vein, ironically grave,
Expos'd the fool, and lash'd the knave.
To steal a hint was never known,
But what he writ was all his own.

'He never thought an honour done him,
Because a duke was proud to own him,
Would rather slip aside and choose
To talk with wits in dirty shoes;
Despis'd the fools with stars and garters,
So often seen caressing Chartres.
He never courted men in station,
Nor persons held in admiration;
Of no man's greatness was afraid,
Because he sought for no man's aid.
Though trusted long in great affairs
He gave himself no haughty airs:
Without regarding private ends,
Spent all his credit for his friends;
And only chose the wise and good;
No flatt'rers; no allies in blood:
But succour'd virtue in distress,
And seldom fail'd of good success;
As numbers in their hearts must own,
Who, but for him, had been unknown.

'With princes kept a due decorum,
But never stood in awe before 'em.
He follow'd David's lesson just:
'In princes never put thy trust';
And, would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in pow'r.
The Irish senate if you nam'd,
With what impatience he declaim'd!
Fair Liberty was all his cry,
For her he stood prepar'd to die;
For her he boldly stood alone;
For her he oft expos'd his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head;
But not a traitor could be found
To sell him for six hundred pound.

'Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen
He might have rose like other men:
But pow'r was never in his thought,
And wealth he valu'd not a groat:
Ingratitude he often found,
And pity'd those who meant the wound:
But kept the tenor of his mind,
To merit well of human kind:
Nor made a sacrifice of those
Who still were true, to please his foes.
He labour'd many a fruitless hour
To reconcile his friends in pow'r;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursu'd each other's ruin.
But, finding vain was all his care,
He left the Court in mere despair.

'And, oh! how short are human schemes!
Here ended all our golden dreams.
What St. John's skill in state affairs,
What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares,
To save their sinking country lent,
Was all destroy'd by one event.
Too soon that precious life was ended,
On which alone our weal depended.
When up a dangerous faction starts,
With wrath and vengeance in their hearts;
By solemn League and Cov'nant bound,
To ruin, slaughter, and confound;
To turn religion to a fable,
And make the government a Babel;
Pervert the law, disgrace the gown,
Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;
To sacrifice old England's glory,
And make her infamous in story:
When such a tempest shook the land,
How could unguarded Virtue stand?

'With horror, grief, despair, the Dean
Beheld the dire destructive scene:
His friends in exile, or the tower,
Himself within the frown of power,
Pursu'd by base envenom'd pens,
Far to the land of slaves and fens;
A servile race in folly nurs'd,
Who truckle most when treated worst.

'By innocence and resolution,
He bore continual persecution,
While numbers to preferment rose,
Whose merits were, to be his foes;
When ev'n his own familiar friends,
Intent upon their private ends,
Like renegadoes now he feels,
Against him lifting up their heels.

'The Dean did by his pen defeat
An infamous destructive cheat;
Taught fools their int'rest how to know,
And gave them arms to ward the blow.
Envy hath own'd it was his doing,
To save that helpless land from ruin;
While they who at the steerage stood,
And reap'd the profit, sought his blood.

'To save them from their evil fate,
In him was held a crime of state.
A wicked monster on the bench,
Whose fury blood could never quench,
As vile and profligate a villain,
As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian,
Who long all justice had discarded,
Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded,
Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent,
And make him of his zeal repent;
But Heav'n his innocence defends,
The grateful people stand his friends.
Not strains of law, nor judge's frown,
Nor topics brought to please the crown,
Nor witness hir'd, nor jury pick'd,
Prevail to bring him in convict.

'In exile, with a steady heart,
He spent his life's declining part;
Where folly, pride, and faction sway,
Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.

'His friendships there, to few confin'd,
Were always of the middling kind;
No fools of rank, a mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed:
Where titles gave no right or power
And peerage is a wither'd flower;
He would have held it a disgrace,
If such a wretch had known his face.
On rural squires, that kingdom's bane,
He vented oft his wrath in vain;
Biennial squires to market brought;
Who sell their souls and votes for nought;
The nation stripp'd, go joyful back,
To rob the church, their tenants rack,
Go snacks with thieves and rapparees,
And keep the peace to pick up fees;
In ev'ry job to have a share,
A jail or barrack to repair;
And turn the tax for public roads,
Commodious to their own abodes.

'Perhaps I may allow, the Dean
Had too much satire in his vein;
And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it.
Yet malice never was his aim;
He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name;
No individual could resent,
Where thousands equally were meant.
His satire points at no defect,
But what all mortals may correct;
For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe
Who call it humour when they gibe.
He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose,
Whose owners set not up for beaux.
True genuine dulness mov'd his pity,
Unless it offer'd to be witty.
Those who their ignorance confess'd
He ne'er offended with a jest;
But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote
A verse from Horace, learn'd by rote.

'He knew a hundred pleasant stories
With all the turns of Whigs and Tories:
Was cheerful to his dying day;
And friends would let him have his way.

'He gave the little wealth he had
To build a house for fools and mad;
And show'd by one satiric touch,
No nation wanted it so much.
That kingdom he hath left his debtor,
I wish it soon may have a better.'

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God Created

God created the moon,
The earth and the sea
But His greatest creation
Is you and me

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Man In God, God In Man

Hate is the man in God;
Love is the God in man.
Self-gratification is the man in God;
Life-dedication is the God in man.
Desire-force is the man in God;
Aspiration-light is the God in man.

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The Forest Inside

once i went inside the forest
it was like a cave of trees
the labyrinths are many
islands and slits of lights
drizzles of rain from up high
it is gray world
cold, damp, and very silent
as though
it is the first day of the earth
and i were the first man

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I Forgot The Poem I Wrote Today


I forgot the poem I wrote today
I forgot the poem I wrote yesterday
I have forgotten all my poems-

No one rereads my poems
I do not reread them-
They will all be forgotten-

O Poems O World-
Will we ever know
What God Remembers?

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the Greatest Creation

science explores matter
religon explores man kind
man explores the truth

truth of matter science
truth of man is religon
truth by itself god

god created science
gods created religons
god created man
[man created god]

god's greatest creation
man's greatest creation

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Though All Around The Devil Prowls

Though all around the devil prowls
And tempts good men to fear.
Though he loudly shrieks and howls
He cannot harm us here.

His legions dark are terrible,
His armies are drawing near.
But we in Christ are strong and stable,
We have no need for fear.

So let the devil shriek and howl,
The battle has been won.
Though all around the devil prowls,
We have the light of God's dear Son.

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God blessed man with a gun

God blessed man with a gun
with a bullet and a yellow sun
and all seemed well:
there was abundant light
land for the people to dwell
until God brought night

God couldn't give
the ability for them to live
under the same yellow sun

Man blessed man with his gun
with a bullet and a red sun
and all seemed ill
there was abundant night
cattle for the people to kill
until no one was left to fight

God couldn't resolve
the question of how to live
under the same yellow sun

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God Created Heaven

God Created Heaven

Beginning Earth Without Form
Void Of Darkness Was The Face
Spirit Of God The Face On Water
Divides The Light From Spirit Form.

Darkness Night
Light Of Way
Light Of Day
Dry Land Earth
It Was So.

Gathering Water Seas
Yield Of Land
Abound With Fruit
God Was Good.

As The Stars Made
Signs Of Seasons
Light On Earth
Divide From Night
Divide Of Day
He Made The Stars
Abundance Love.

God Bless
Our Likeness Of God Image
His Own Dominion
All Who Host
A Work He'd Done.

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When God created us all, We were not left alone

it is true and i agree completely
when God created us all
we were not left alone

he created the rivers and the seas
to tell us that we must flow and be deep
and be wide with compassion

he created the skies that we may always
look up to the wide expanse of this
unfathomable love, this universe

he created the earth where our fellowmen live
so we all become coals hot with cinders
unsegregated from the fires that burn
within us, lest we become cold and nothing
but ash, blown by the wind and then forgotten.

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Why Has God Created Those Lips?

He often said,
“Do you know why God created your lips? ”

On my unawareness he replied,
“So that they should confess,
You are mine, you are mine”
And then,
I became habitual in saying,
“I am yours, I am yours.”

Then a day came, he spoke wearily
To my routine expressions,
“It is queer you neither feel fatigued
Nor experience tedium, and then
It is true; the same sentence has been learnt
To be said by the lips of someone else.”

I am pondering that I should ask him,
“Tell me my Love!
Why has God created those lips? ”

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