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Island of Lemurs: Madagascar

Cast: Morgan Freeman, Patricia Wright

trailer for Island of Lemurs: Madagascar, directed by David Douglas, screenplay by Drew Fellman (2014)
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Morgan

When Morgan crossed the Murray to Peechelba and doom
A sombre silent shadow rode with him through the gloom.
The wild things of the forest slunk from the outlaw's track,
The boobook croaked a warning, "Go back, go back, go back!"
It woke no answering echo in Morgan's blackened soul,
As onward through the darkness he rode towards his goal.

An evil man was Morgan, a price was on his head;
The simple bush-folk whispered his very name with dread;
Before the fierce Dan Morgan the bravest man might quake-
A cold and callous killer, he killed for killing's sake. .
Past swamp and creek and gully, and settler's lone abode,
Towards the station homestead the grim Dan Morgan rode.

And still that hooded horseman that Morgan could not see,
Watched by the wild bush-creatures, rode close beside his knee.
Before them in a clearing a drover's campfire burned:
The phantom rode with Morgan, and turned when Morgan turned.
And loud the boobook's warning came on the cold night air,
"Go back, go back, Dan Morgan. Beware, beware, beware!"

He reached the station homestead, into the hall he strode,
And on his evil features, the flickering lamplight glowed.
"Into one room!" he thundered. Bring me a glass of grog!
If any disobey me I'll shoot him like a dog!"
With pistols cocked and ready, dark-eyed and beetle-browed-
Before the famous outlaw the bravest hearts were cowed.

All night with loaded pistols he dozed and muttered there,
All night the evil shadow stood close behind his chair.
The brave Scotch girl McDonald, a lass who knew no fear,
Slipped out unseen by Morgan to warn the homesteads near.
And in the hours of darkness, before the break of dawn,
Around the fierce Dan Morgan the fatal net was drawn.

Day broke upon the Murray, the morning mists were gone,
The magpies sang their matins, the river murmured on.
When Morgan left the homestead and neared the stockyard gate
He heard the boobooks warning, and turned but turned to late -
For Quinlan pressed the trigger as Morgan swung around,
And sent the grim bushranger blaspheming to the ground.

So fell the dread Dan Morgan in Eighteen sixty-five,
In death as much unpitied as hated when alive.
He lived by blood and plunder, an outlaw to the end;
In life he showed no mercy, in death he left no friend.
And all who seek to follow in Morgan's evil track
Should heed the boobook's warning: "Go back, go back, go back!"

poem by Edward Harrington
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Dangerous To Love Things That Perish

for Louise and Morgan

Dangerous to love things that perish
but cowardly not to.
You weren't just a cat.
You were Morgan.
You were
as when I first saw you as a kitten
cupped in Louise's hands
a cloud
a whiff of incense
smoke
a breath
a gust of stars
someone in love had breathed out.
And we loved you.
And now you're dead.
And there are two more people in the world
who can't stop weeping.
Because there is no now
in the suddenness of death
and it's colder in our hearts than it is outside
because your absence
like your body
doesn't have a temperature anymore.
And there's a dagger of darkness
that's thrust through everything
as if God were an assassin
in some kind of video killing game
that put black holes to shame.
Or is it just the impersonality of life
that it seems to derive a cheap thrill
from killing the things it creates
without knowing their names?
Morgan.
Got it.
Morgan the Cat.
A work of genius.
And you'd be a whole lot wiser than you are
not to forget it
because she was a goddess in her own rite.
She was the auroral shapeshifter
that was born a kitten
but grew up to be more than a human
because we always wished
we had more of her characteristics
than the ones we had as a superior species
and we worshipped her
and paid her the attentive kind of tribute
that was and is the natural due of her magical virtues.

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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The Birth Of Rain

Drifting on a drab Sunday in Perth among the ashtrays and leftover sublimities of the church bells. My studio window above the rooftops a smear of willow and wet pine undulating gently in the stillness that followed the rain. Wolves on the easel, waiting to pay the rent. May of the fifth year into the twenty-first century, fifty-six, I sit in a blizzard of tobacco crumbs because I'm too poor to buy tailor-mades, coughing at the computer, wiping small drops of water like pygmy tears from the Cyclopean eye of the screen that glows with the same effulgence as the dirty sheet of the sky. The main migrations are over, but maybe these words are rosaries of late-returning birds. Two anthracite, boat-tailed grackles on a branch just beyond the grimy glass and a gust of sparrows chirrup like squeaky alternator-belts, manically elated in the wake of the storm that has just passed. My freedoms are more sober, my resurgencies probably less profound than the gray roses I give birth to here at my desk, waiting for one of these terminal urgencies of insight to sway me like a bell.

Maybe Louise later today with her Cola and cassettes, and her rough, voluptuous, laughing humanity scorning the random acids of the vulgar world that schools her, a muse who doesn't take requests, a generous longing that's been through a lot. So I sublimate the root-fires of my leafless batons into an auto-de-fe of white canes tired of trying to tap their way through a maze of sexual creeds, blind. The result? A novel and dozens of poems apples above the worms. And I keep her cats, Morgan and Rain, mother and kitten almost fully grown. There are no humans Louise loves more.

The kitten was born beside me on the couch at one-thirty in the morning while Louise was in the hospital and I read La Mettrie, d'Holbach, Diderot, d'Alembert, Voltaire, Rousseau and Helvetius, eighteenth century French les philosophes. Two days ago, remembering, she asked me to write a poem to celebrate the birth. And it's two hundred and fifteen years since the French revolution went into convulsions and mothered daggers out of its wounds, and we are neither free, nor equal, nor brothers, and the birth of Rain, by association, is only the smallest of iota subscripts below the voluminous pretext of that slaughter, hardly, if at all, a mote that matters; but in a way she was born while the peasants stormed the Bastille, and time sent corpses and ideas floating facedown on one of its more famous rivers of blood all the way to the embryonic comma of this tender, contrary event. And there was honour in being a witness when Morgan jumped up beside me

and lay her head upon my right arm as a pillow, the great red text
with ivory pages open to the public like the Vatican before me
as the soft, gray satchel of her body shuddered with the natal lightning
of a different storm, the quickening eruptions of a different riddle
than the one that dropped its answer like a blade
on the necks of the cropped carnations as I kept on reading, thinking
to run for a towel before deciding not to disturb her,
that a little blood on the couch wouldn't hurt anything
compared to the streams of gore that caked the pages of my book.

And there was a humility in the act of watching, and a trust,
as if a great secret were demanding something of her
she was willing to go through hell to give. And my heart
laboured with her like a sympathetic strawberry, convinced of a miracle,
and even the colder lizards of my mind were awed
by the conception of the material immortality achieved
by the platitudinous genius of replicating genomes,
and who among temples and havens and research labs
could hold a candle to that, and what have I written, or felt, or thought,
that even comes close? And there wasn't a manger,
but the whole of the vast, star trailing night
crowded in behind the adoration of the angel-winged lamps to observe
genesis in the portent of its light
as Morgan rose like a violent squall
and squatting let slip with a howl of wounded passage
a black, sleek pickle of life wrapped in pink ribbons
tied to the tongue-sized kite of a pink placenta
with nothing left to say
while the French Revolution lay open on the table,
crazed with vertical caesarians. Two minutes more
and the afterbirth was eaten, Rain, because she's rippled, blind
because her eyes were queered by the living room light,
groomed and heading for the tit the way
a baby turtle waddles out of its cosmic egg with the world on its back to the sea,
her three-toed paws not yet the heavy seals of tigers,
and stumped by the impasse of continental plates
between the cushions, her first obstruction, tried, but insurmountable, I
appointed myself a force of nature as good as any
and gave her a boost to the bottle, Morgan,
a cat that seldom purrs, purring like dough
at having the cleat of her nipple kneaded into milk.

Two and a half hours I walked and waited to see if she would live;
window to window, through doors and back again, two and a half hours

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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A Friend of Light

As earth prepared its meeting with the sky
And my wishing to watch the sun slowly
Sink into the spectacular glow, instead
I basked in the dark not trusting light.

Then along came Patricia, who chased
Away loneness, fears and all its hosts
You used the means to mine beauty, joy and grace
That I may feel, taste and SEE, and turn to
You when my spirit needs a lift.

Patricia, lovingly called Pat, and my dearest friend:
I remember the first day we met. You
Accepted me and all my grime even instilled
In me that spirituality and beliefs restores.
You cared for me as I scrambled on the floor.

I didn't know where or how to go, yet you kept in touch,
Reached out your hands and picked me off the floor; then
Helped me clean off the grime.
I put on my fine and
Stepped into the light!

Patricia Dick-Arnell and Kevin Turner may you be blessed and Graced with compassion and love for each that'll pervade the world!
Stay in the light evermore…

By Almedia Knight-Oliver

December 7,2012

poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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The Return of Morgan and Fingal

And there we were together again—
Together again, we three:
Morgan, Fingal, fiddle, and all,
They had come for the night with me.

The spirit of joy was in Morgan’s wrist,
There were songs in Fingal’s throat;
And secure outside, for the spray to drench,
Was a tossed and empty boat.

And there were the pipes, and there was the punch,
And somewhere were twelve years;
So it came, in the manner of things unsought,
That a quick knock vexed our ears.

The night wind hovered and shrieked and snarled,
And I heard Fingal swear;
Then I opened the door—but I found no more
Than a chalk-skinned woman there.

I looked, and at last, “What is it?” I said—
“What is it that we can do?”
But never a word could I get from her
But “You—you three—it is you!”

Now the sense of a crazy speech like that
Was more than a man could make;
So I said, “But we—we are what, we three?”
And I saw the creature shake.

“Be quick!” she cried, “for I left her dead—
And I was afraid to come;
But you, you three—God made it be—
Will ferry the dead girl home.

“Be quick! be quick!—but listen to that
Who is that makes it?—hark!”
But I heard no more than a knocking splash
And a wind that shook the dark.

“It is only the wind that blows,” I said,
“And the boat that rocks outside.”
And I watched her there, and I pitied her there—
“Be quick! be quick!” she cried.

She cried so loud that her voice went in
To find where my two friends were;
So Morgan came, and Fingal came,
And out we went with her.

[...] Read more

poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Return to the Dream

‘Through The Wormhole’ Morgan Freeman debating whether
intelligent life exists in our universe led to my mind getting stuck
on the wrong mental station where my fictitious characters cannot
help in resolving the argument

My five senses let me experience the dead universe which Morgan
Freeman insists is the only thing in existence – making me feel so
desperately lonely; I need an alternative to the physical depiction
of a cold and lifeless universe

My instincts and feelings require the mystique of Spiritualism and
Occultism to empower my ‘dead’ body in which the ‘thinking ghost’
is enclosed to work efficiently; the ‘thinking ghost in the machine’
theory is suffocating – let me return to the dream

In order to lead a happy and productive life; let these scientists enjoy
their self-created dark, cold and meaningless universe restricted to
their illogical assumptions of undesigned life, the limitations of their
senses and the level of their technology

“Through The Wormhole” - Channel 251 - BBC Knowledge

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The Task: Book V. -- The Winter Morning Walk

‘Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,
Resemble most some city in a blaze,
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From every herb and every spiry blade
Stretches a length of shadow o’er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
In spite of gravity, and sage remark
That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
I view the muscular proportion’d limb
Transform’d to a lean shank. The shapeless pair
As they design’d to mock me, at my side
Take step for step; and as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster’d wall,
Preposterous sight! the legs without the man.
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents
And coarser grass, upspearing o’er the rest,
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad,
And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
Their wonted fodder; not like hungering man,
Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-paced swain’s delay.
He from the stack carves out the accustom’d load,
Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft,
His broad keen knife into the solid mass:
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,
With such undeviating and even force
He severs it away: no needless care,
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.
Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern’d
The cheerful haunts of man; to wield the axe
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,
From morn to eve his solitary task.
Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears
And tail cropp’d short, half lurcher and half cur,
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel
Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk
Wide scampering, snatches up the driften snow
With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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So Long Frank Lloyd Wright

So long, Frank Lloyd Wright
I can't believe your song is gone so soon
I barely learned the tune
So soon
So soon
I'll remember Frank Lloyd Wright
All of the nights we'd harmonize till dawn
I never laughed so long
So long
So long
Architects may come and
Architects may go and
Never change your point of view
When I run dry
I stop a while and think of you
Architects may come and
Architects may go and
Never change your point of view
So long, Frank Lloyd Wright
All of the nights we'd harmonize till dawn
I never laughed so long
So long
So long

song performed by Simon & Garfunkel
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The 'Right Brothers

Once there were two brothers, Wilbur and Orville Wright
Bicycle their passion, their obsession was flight
To put an aeroplane in a high altitude,
Their dream of a lifetime, a dream pursue the would
At first they did it wrong, and the future seemed blight
But in 1903 finally did it Wright

When the Great Aerodrome failed to become aloft
One December 8 from a Potomac houseboat
Some estimated that Man will conquer the air
Not within a lifetime but in a million years

It did not take that long, it took only nine days,
17th December, year nineteen hundred third
In North Carolina, in a place called Kitty Hawk
The Wright's first aeroplane from ground to air took off
A machine that is much, much heavier than air
To the cheers of the crowd, up and airborne became

poem by Pacific Hernandez
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The Folk-Mote By The River

It was up in the morn we rose betimes
From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes.

It was but John the Red and I,
And we were the brethren of Gregory;

And Gregory the Wright was one
Of the valiant men beneath the sun,

And what he bade us that we did
For ne’er he kept his counsel hid.

So out we went, and the clattering latch
Woke up the swallows under the thatch.

It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt,
And thrust the whetstone under the belt.

Through the cold garden boughs we went
Where the tumbling roses shed their scent.

Then out a-gates and away we strode
O’er the dewy straws on the dusty road,

And there was the mead by the town-reeve’s close
Where the hedge was sweet with the wilding rose.

Then into the mowing grass we went
Ere the very last of the night was spent.

Young was the moon, and he was gone,
So we whet our scythes by the stars alone:

But or ever the long blades felt the hay
Afar in the East the dawn was grey.

Or ever we struck our earliest stroke
The thrush in the hawthorn-bush awoke.

While yet the bloom of the swathe was dim
The black-bird’s bill had answered him.

Ere half of the road to the river was shorn
The sunbeam smote the twisted thorn.

Now wide was the way ’twixt the standing grass
For the townsfolk unto the mote to pass,

And so when all our work was done
We sat to breakfast in the sun,

[...] Read more

poem by William Morris
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Essay on Psychiatrists

I. Invocation

It‘s crazy to think one could describe them—
Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eves and ears—
As though they were all alike any more

Than sweeps, opticians, poets or masseurs.
Moreover, they are for more than one reason
Difficult to speak of seriously and freely,

And I have never (even this is difficult to say
Plainly, without foolishness or irony)
Consulted one for professional help, though it happens

Many or most of my friends have—and that,
Perhaps, is why it seems urgent to try to speak
Sensibly about them, about the psychiatrists.

II. Some Terms

“Shrink” is a misnomer. The religious
Analogy is all wrong, too, and the old,
Half-forgotten jokes about Viennese accents

And beards hardly apply to the good-looking woman
In boots and a knit dress, or the man
Seen buying the Sunday Times in mutton-chop

Whiskers and expensive running shoes.
In a way I suspect that even the terms “doctor”
And “therapist” are misnomers; the patient

Is not necessarily “sick.” And one assumes
That no small part of the psychiatrist’s
Role is just that: to point out misnomers.

III. Proposition

These are the first citizens of contingency.
Far from the doctrinaire past of the old ones,
They think in their prudent meditations

Not about ecstasy (the soul leaving the body)
Nor enthusiasm (the god entering one’s person)
Nor even about sanity (which means

Health, an impossible perfection)
But ponder instead relative truth and the warm

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Pinsky
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Two Pina Colladas

I was feelin the blues,
I was watchin the news
When this fella came on the tv
He said that Im tellin you,
That science has proven
That heartaches are healed by the sea
And that got me goin without even knowin
And I packed right up and drove down
Now Im on a role, and I sear to my sole
Tonight Im gonna paint this town
(chorus)
So bring me two pina colladas
I want one for each hand
Lets set sail with captain morgan
And never leave dry land
Any troubles Ive forgotten
Ive buried them in the sand.
So bring me two pina colladas
She said goodbye to her good timing man.
Now Ive got to saying, that the wind and the waves
And the moon winkin down at me
Eases my mind, by leaving behind
The heartaches that love often brings
Now Ive got a smile, that goes on for miles
With no inclination to roam
Now Ive gotta say, that I thank God I stayed
Cause its feeling more and more like home
(chorus)
So bring me two pina colladas
I gotta have one for each hand
Lets set sail with captain morgan
And never leave dry land
Any troubles Ive forgotten
Ive buried them in the sand.
So bring me two pina colladas
She said goodbye to her good timing man.
So bring me bring me bring me two pina colladas
I gotta have one for each hand
Lets set sail with captain morgan
And never leave dry land
Any troubles Ive forgotten
Ive buried them in the sand.
So bring me two pina colladas
She said goodbye to her good timing man

song performed by Garth Brooks
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The Gundaroo Bullock

Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone,
And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the "Goulburn Roan";
But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few
Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they breed at Gundaroo.
Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows,
There's a block of broken country-side where no one ever goes;
For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too,
And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo.

There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side,
And he said to Smith the squatter, "You must saddle up and ride,
For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo --
He's the greatest cattle-stealer in the whole of Gundaroo."

"Oh, ho!" said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run,
"I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun,
And down into his homestead tonight we'll take a ride,
With warrants to identify the carcass and the hide."

That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head,
They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed.
"Now, show to us the carcass of the bullock that you slew --
The hairy-whiskered bullock that you killed in Gundaroo."

They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full,
But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool.
"What's this?" exclaimed the trooper; "an infant, I declare;"
Said Morgan, "'Tis the carcass of an old man native bear.
I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew,
Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo.

"The times are something awful, as you can plainly see,
The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me;
We can't afford a bullock -- such expense would never do --
So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo."
And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows,
In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes,
On the Upper Murrumbidgee, they're a hospitable crew --
But you mustn't ask for "bullock" when you go to Gundaroo.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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If we can not trust a freeman with his right to keep and bear arms, then how can we trust him with the right to vote. Surely the right of a freeman to vote has a much greater effect on our collective lives than does any individual's firearm. If one argues that the effect of any one freeman's vote is minimal, then why allow it in the first place To be armed is to secure one's right to representation.

quote by Thomas Mincher
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No Moss?

A frog he goes to the bank
His name is Kermit Jagger
The teller at the bank
Her name is Miss Patricia Whack
She welcomes him, that’s a fact
Kermit says “I would like a loan
I need a holiday to get away
From all those tadpoles
In the pond back home, that way”.
Kermit says “it should be OK,
my dad Mick he knows the manager
who thinks he rocks, he’s swell.”
The teller says, tell me
Do you have your ID?
Kermit produces from his pocket
A small porcelain figure of
A pink elephant, most charming.
Perfect in its shape and making
Patricia she is most confused
And finds the manager
In case she may have misconstrued.
And asks “Do you know
Kermit Jagger’s Dad, Mick?
And what on earth is this! ”
As she holds the elephant
For the mangers benefit.
And the manager says to her
“It’s a Nick Knack, Patty Whack.
Give the frog a loan.
His old man’s a rolling stone.”

poem by David Taylor
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Goin Down Slow

Iv had my fun if I dont ever get well no more
Iv had my fun if I dont ever get well no more
I know my help is failing me now
I know Im goin down slow
Wont somebody wright my mother and tell her the shape Im in
I want somebody to wright my mother and tell her the shape Im in
I want you tell her to pray for me
Ask her to fortgive me for all my sinns
Mother please dont send me no doctor
A doctor cant do me no good
I dont want you to send me no doctor now..
A doctor just cant do me no good
Back when I was a young boy oh..
I just didnt do the thing I should
Mmmm mmmmmm
Mmmm mmmmmm

song performed by Allman Brothers Band
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Virginia's Story

Elizabeth Gates-Wooten is my Grand mom.

She was born in Canada with her father and brothers.
They owned a Barber Shoppe.
I don't remember exactly where in Canada.
I believe it was right over the border like Windsor or Toronto.
I never knew exactly where it was.

When she was old enough she got married.

First, she married a man by the name of Frank Gates.
He was from Madagascar.
He fathered my mom and her brother and sister.
The boy's name was Frank Gates, Jr.
Two girls name were Anna and Agnes.

Agnes was my mother.

Frank Gates went crazy after the war
He drank a lot and died
Then grandma Elizabeth married a man by the name of Mr. Wooten.
He had a German name, but I don't think he was German.
She took his last name after they got married.

Then they moved to West Virginia in the United States.

Their son, Frank Gates Jr. Became a delegate in the democratic party.
He use to get into a lot of trouble because he liked to fight.
He was a delegate from the 1940's to 1970's.
He died of gout in the 1970's.

Anna was a maid and cook.

She baked cakes and stuff for people as a side line.
She had a hump on her back (scoliosis) .
She had to walk with a cane.
She could cook good though.
She did this kind of work all of her life, just like her mom, Elizabeth

They were both good cooks

They had a lot of money because they had these skills
Especially when people had parties.
Because they would make all of this food and then they would have left-overs.
We got to eat a lot of stuff we normally wouldn't get because of that.
When they cooked, they didn't use no measuring stuff, they would just use there hand.

My moms name was Agnes Barrie Gates.

She married James Wright and moved to Cleveland.

[...] Read more

poem by Talile Ali
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A Poem A Poem

A poem a poem
I shall have it by tonight
A poem a poem
It is my will to wright
A poem a poem
It's the freedom of expression
A poem a poem
This is my obsession
A poem a poem
Its more than just a wright
A poem a poem
Its a love that is right!

poem by Drew Swartz
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Allegany Camp

amazing grace circus camp
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amazon camp in sweetwater missouri
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amazon lodge dutch oven camp
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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Edge Of Forever

(duet with chely wright)
Written by richard marx and chely wright
No one can decide
When lightning will strike
And everything falls into place
But lately it seems
When youre in my dreams
I find that I dont want to wake
I wanna slowly
Unlock the mystery
I wanna make love
I wanna make history
Chorus
With you
I see a lifetime with you
And if one thing is true
Its that God knew someday Id be standing
On the edge of forever with you
Im ready to fall
To give you my all
Cause youre everything Ill ever want
Its amazing to me
How far we can see
Our horizon goes on and on
I wanna slowly
Unlock the mystery
I wanna make love
I wanna make history
Chorus
And when Im shivering
Your body will be my blanket
And then Im drifting, baby
Youll be my anchor
Chorus

song performed by Richard Marx
Added by Lucian Velea
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