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The man who suspects his own tediousness is yet to be born.

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The man who lost his soul

The man who lost his soul had a hole for a heart,

And so, wherever he went, there was a draught


Until one day he met his 'better half'

And feeling complete

He could thaw his sad frozen feet, at last

At the fire of love

And all loss was a thing of the past!

yvette m smith jan 09

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The Man who Lost His Keys!

The man who lost his keys
Begged God while on his knees
For sometimes God agrees
And doesn't play the tease
But first there came no ease
That poor man to release
Who hoped the search would cease
So he could make coffees
Then life would seem a breeze
If he could find his keys!

The man who lost his keys
Had lost all certainties
Saw all his doubts increase
His mind like melted cheese
He prayed God pretty please
And offered reward fees
Yet money God won't seize
Who owns the woods and trees
God chose to grant him peace
And helped him find his keys!


(August 2011)

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The Man who Keeps his Head

THERE'S a man who fights for England, and
he'll keep her still atop,
He will guard her from dishonour in the market
and the shop,
He will save her homes from terror on the fields of
Daily Bread,
He's the man who sticks to business, he's the man
who keeps his head.

Let the foe who strikes at England hear her wheels
of commerce turn,
Let the ships that war with England see her factory
furnace burn;
For the foe most fears the cannon, and his heart
most quails with dread
When behind the man in khaki is the man who
keeps his head.

Brand him traitor and assassin who with miser's
coward mood
Has his gold locked up in secret and his larders
stored with food,

Who has cast adrift his workers, who lies sweating
in his bed,
And who snarls to hear the laughter of the man
Who keeps his head.

Let the poor man teach the rich man, for the poor
man's constant strife
Is from day to day to seek work, day by day to war
with life,
And the poor man's home hangs ever by a frail and
brittle thread,
And the poor man's often hungry, but the poor
man keeps his head.

When the ships come back from slaughter, and the
troops march home from war;
When the havoc strewn behind us threats the road
that lies before,
Every hero shall be welcomed, every orphan shall
be fed,
By the man who stuck to business, by the man who
kept his head.

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The Lonely Woman And The Man Who Predicted His Own Death

The lonely woman
took a liter of costly perfumed oil
made from genuine aromatic nard

and anointed his feet and
dried them with her hair;
the house was filled
with the fragrance of the oil

If you are with me
Then you will know at once
who the woman was
for whom
we identify our own
loneliness
who the man was
who died for all of us
nailed feet
bloodied hair

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Man Who Mistook His Mistress For A Violin

The man who mistook his mistress for a violin
is the subject of a book by J. M. Coetzee.
Mistaking music for a mistress is a sin
more serious that to eat bread without saying motsi.

When sex becomes a contest in which you subject
erotic will to your opponent who’s a wench,
don’t treat her like a piece of bread and don’t object
if she declares she is not ready yet to bensch.

Motsi is the Hebrew name of a piece of bread a Jew may not eat before saying a blessing, hamotsi lehem min ha’arets, meaning “He who brings forth bread from the earth.” Bensch means “bless, ” and in the context of eating bread it refers to the blessing that in Hebrew is called birkat hamazon, meaning “the blessing for food.” Coetzee’s description of himself as “the man who mistook his mistress for a violin” is clearly an allusion to Oliver Sacks’s story of the man with visual agnosia who mistook his wife for a hat.

The poem was in part inspired by Tim Parks’s review of J. M. Coetzee’s “Summertime: A Fiction, ” a novel that may or may not be autobiographical (“The Education of ‘John Coetzee, ’” NYR (February 11,2010) :
Following Boyhood (1997) and Youth (2002) , Summertime concludes J.M. Coetzee's autobiographical trilogy. It is a teasing and surprisingly funny book, at once as elaborately elusive and determinedly confessional as ever autobiography could be. If Boyhood and Youth were remarkable for Coetzee's use of the third person (the author declining to identify with his younger self) and the present tense (a narrative device more commonly associated with fiction than memoir) , Summertime takes both distancing and novelizing a step further. Despite our seeing Coetzee's name on the cover and hence assuming the author alive and well, we are soon asked to believe that he is now dead, the book being made up of five interviews conducted by an anonymous biographer who is speaking to people he presumes were important to the writer during the years 1972–1975.
Coetzee writes about the affair he has, possibly fact, possibly fiction, with a psychotherapist called Julia:
John, she says, was actually “a minor character” in a drama played out between herself and her husband. While the latter was traveling, the lovers enjoyed an “erotic entanglement” in the marital bed. Yet John was peripheral to her life; at the one moment when she was ready to leave her husband and he could have become a major player, he “took fright” and snuck out of the hotel where she was sleeping….Certainly there’s comedy to be had in the description of this willfully unassertive man partnering a woman who sees sex “as a contest, a variety of wrestling in which you do you best to subject your opponent to your erotic will.” “He was not in my league, ” Julia complains. When John tries to persuade her to moderate her lovemaking to fir the slow movement of a Schubert string quintet, the better to “re-experience” the sexual feelings of a bygone age, Julia shows him the door. “The man who mistook his mistress for a violin, ” she comments.


1/30/10

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The Man Who Dipped His Fingers In Salt And Lick Them All

he dips his fingers in
salt and licks them all

people look at him with
all surprise
he is weird and they do not
like him
He is detestable
they say

he does this everyday
all the days of the week
all the weeks of months
all the months of those years

the people shut him away
they close their doors
they vomit when they see him
they look at him with contempt
they throw him away from
their cities
they ban him from all
other countries

he keeps the salt all to himself
he eats them and drinks them all
he has become sick
very sick like one rusty nail

he died and people did not
mourn for him
good riddance so to say
the city dances in jubilation
the world turns into a fourth of july

if they only knew him
well that i know him to be
they should have known how
he disliked salt
how all his senses revolt
against this instinct
of having his fingers dip
in salt
and of his having his tongue
lick
and how his mouth eats
all the stuff that
destroys his body
how every night he vomits
how his system fails
how he knew that with all these
he is actually killing himself

people do not know
there are things that happen
without his control
there are times when one
has no choice
but to dip the fingers in salt
no matter how bad it turns out to be
until he dies

society denies instincts
conceals the existence of vampires and gnomes and
parasites and ghouls
society keeps its own beautiful face
hides the scars and the disease

who wants to eat salt all his life?
who wants to rust like a nail and die like a brown dust on the ground?
who wants to be a scrap of iron and melt in salt?
who wants to be a robot? a man of hay?

nobody. i repeat nobody.
He never liked it himself.
Society has not asked
it never cares

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The Man Who Talks To God

For one of self proclaimed devotion his behaviour seems odd
And he is known by many as the man who talks to God
His so called war on terrorism has left thousands of people dead
Of his wars in Afghanistan and Iraq so much written and said.

George W always talks to God when in his church he pray
God told him to bomb Afghanistan and George W did obey
And then he told him to invade Iraq and dropp bombs on Baghdad
His must be a judgemental God to decide good from bad.

The privileged one who talks to God he fights to cling to power
His God cares for the noxious weed and poisons the peace flower
His God who seems so righteous for the poor doesn't show much sympathy
And for the people who believe in other Gods he lacks in empathy.

He is the one who talks to God one of his God's chosen few
He wages war in his God's name and to his God he is true
When his God tells him to go to war he always does obey
It takes all kinds to make up the Human World each to their own they say.

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The Man Who Sailed Around His Soul

The man who sailed around his soul
From east to west, from pole to pole
With ego as his drunken captain
Greed, the mutineer, had trapped all reason in the hold
The man who walked across his heart
Who took no compass, guide or chart
To rope and tar his blood congealed
When he found his self revealed ugly and cold
And the sirens that sing
By your nose with its ring
Theyll drag you in
For your sins
Now he sits all alone
And its no place like home
Its empty skin
A bag to keep lifes souvenirs in
The man who sailed around his soul
The man who sailed around his soul
The man who sailed around his soul
Came back again to find a hole
Where once he thought compassion and the truth
Had laid to warm his freezing carcass on return
The man who walked across his heart
Was doomed to journey from the start
Of every love affair hed broken
All the lies hed ever spoken
Tattooed on his arm
And the jellyfish stings
Even angels with wings
Who look too deep
And dare to peep
Now he sits all alone
Knowing flesh blood and bone
Is everything
He found the treasure hed been seeking
The man who sailed around his soul

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The Man Who Saw

The master weavers at the enchanted loom
Of Legend, weaving long ago those tales
Through which there wanders the grey thread of truth,
Lost in the gorgeous arras of romance,
Tell how King Vortigern resolved to build
A Tower of Safety, 'mid the solitudes
That are the hem of the great druid robe
Of Snowdon, Mount of Eagles. So each day
The builders laboured, marrying stone to stone;
But ever in the night an adversary
Invisible as malevolent cancelled those
Cold nuptials, and with impish wanton rage
Shattered the walls. And thither, from beyond
That congress of grave mountains, met like seers
And bards august, though in a rivalry
Of silence rather than of song—from where
The vales are not so tranced with awe, nor yet
So far below the hill tops as to feel
Aching estrangement,—fortune one day brought
A youth whoso very brow was a command.
His name of Merlin had not clambered then
To fearsome greatness, like a dusty star;
Yet ev'n thus early his subduing eyes
Seemed to have known all things in life but tears;
And standing where wrecked hopes bestrewed the ground,
He said to them whose toil was shards and dust:
'Search underneath. your tower's foundations; there
Are the Unbuilders, busy while you build;
The Undoers are there.' And every man obeyed.
And digging deep, they found a hollow abysm,
Where waters gnawed the ribs of the Earth, and sapped
Her sinews, till her frame tottered infirm ;
'Where also monsters heaved their tumid bulk
In ancient ambush, and with tremors vast
Palsied those ramparts as they yearned to rise;'
Blind dragon shapes, of blindest, darkness born,
That save in darkness could not live an hour,
And, touched by Light, made their dull moan, and died.

Such is the tale, which one, who chronicled
Old shadowy wars in sanctuaries of peace,
Found amid crumbled pomps, the hushed domain
Of mildew, and the empire of the moth,
Nigh on eight hundred years ago. And now,
Out of that land where Snowdon night by night
Receives the confidences of lonesome stars,
And where Carnarvon's ruthless battlements
Magnificently oppress the daunted tide,
There comes—no fabled Merlin, son of mist,
And brother to the twilight, but a man
Who in a time terrifically real
Is real as the time; formed for the time;'
Not. much .beholden to the munificent Past,
In mind or spirit but frankly of this hour
No faggot of perfections, angel or saint,
Created faultless and intolerable;
No meeting-place of all the heavenlinesses;
But eminently a. man to stir and spur
Men, to afflict them with benign alarm,
Harass their sluggish and uneager blood,
Till, like himself, they are hungry for the goal;
A man with something of the cragginess
Of his own mountains, something of the force
That goads to their loud leap the mountain streams.

And he too comes to bid the builders probe
Deep underneath the Tower of Safety, lest
A pit lie cavernous and covert there,
A long baulked, ravening emptiness, a grave
That famishes for its expected food.
Nay, in his hands he takes the delver's spade,
Lays bare the hollow, o'er which to build at all
Were to build woe and ruin, and 'stablishes
A mightier tower, bastioned so broad and firm,
In life, in manhood, and in womanhood,
Founded upon so massy a human rock,
And with such living bulwarks against them
Who first poured death from where the lark strews bliss,
That when, at last, ours shall be Triumph, though
Triumph perhaps too weary to rejoice,
Save with a mournful jubilation—when
Hate shall reel back from these embattled walls,
And having spent so long its hurtling bolts
With such' poor thrift, shall stand before the star?
Bankrupt of thunder—then indeed shall Time
Add yet another name to those the world
Salutes with an obeisance of the soul:
The name of him, the man of Celtic blood,
Whom Powers Unknown, in a divine caprice,
Chose and did make their instrument, wherewith
To save the Saxon: the man all eye and hand,
The man who saw, and grasped, and gripped, and held.
Then shall each morrow with its yesterday
Vie, in the honour of nobly honouring him,
Who found us blindfold by the slippery .verge
Of fathomless perdition and haled us back.
And poets shall dawn in pearl and gold of speech,
Crowning his deed with not less homage, here
On English ground, than yonder whence he rose:
Yonder where crash the cataracts through the chasms,
And unto the dark tempests the dark hills
Offer their stubborn sides all gered, but keep
A heart invincible and impregnable;
While with long arm and piercing spear the sea
Thrusts far into the valleys, that of old
Heard the twin raptures of the harp and sword,
The heroic strife, and the heroic strings,
Amid the battling torrents, and beneath
The happier peaks, that, without strife, prevail.

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The Man Who Has No Problems

The man who has no problems
My pastor once had said
Is not the one who had solved them
But the one who's already dead.

The man who has no problems
Is one who've lost his mind
He who has drugged his system
When peace he could not find.

The man who has no problems
Is he who drinks to flee
And drowns himself in alcohol
His escape from Reality

The man who has no problems
I doubt if there was one
For Life is full of challenges
Of tears and joy till it is done.


'I am leaving you with a gift - peace of mind and heart.'

JOHN 14: 27

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The Man Who Sold The World

We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasnt there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago
Oh no, not me
I never lost control
Youre face to face
With the man who sold the world
I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazley stare at all the millions here
We must have died along, a long long time ago
Who knows? not me
We never lost control
Youre face to face
With the man who sold the world

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The Man Who Sold The World

We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasn't there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago
Oh no, not me
I never lost control
You're face to face
With The Man Who Sold The World
I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here
We must have died alone, a long, long time ago
Who knows? Not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the Man who Sold the World

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The Man Who Stole The Holy Fire

He was the man
who stole the holy fire
he was the bringer
of all violence
he is the one
who's dictated all desire
the worlds destiny
was in his hands.
Inventor, creator, destroyer
the three estates of the world.
All in one. Inventor, creator,
destroyer the three estates of the world.
He was the man
who stole the holy fire
he was the maker
of the ugliest dream
became a thief,
a criminal, a liar
a survivor of the good and of the mean
The master of melancholy
he wants to sing the song of military
the feud is deeper
than ever this battle won't be finished, no never.

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The Man Who Sold The World

Written by David Bowie
We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasn't there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago
Oh no, not me
I never lost control
You're face to face
With The Man Who Sold The World
I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare, at all the millions here
We must have died along, a long long time ago
Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the Man who Sold the World
(repeat)

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The Man Who Sold The World (live, 1979-12-15: Saturday Night Live)

We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasn't there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago
Oh no, not me
I never lost control
You're face to face
With The Man Who Sold The World
I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here
We must have died along, a long long time ago
Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the Man who Sold the World
Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the Man who Sold the World

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The Man Who Took On Big Brother

The man who stand for human rights, freedom and justice
Is now in jail perhaps for a long stay
The authorities say he an an agitator
The only reason he is locked away.

He was a brave man to take on big brother
For those who take on big brother are few
And though he may spend many years behind bars
To a higher human principle he is true.

He could have kept his mouth shut like me and others
For human rights is not a popular thing
Instead he spoke his mind and got in trouble
And the wrath of big brother upon himself did bring.

He is that man who dared to take on big brother
But for his brave stand he is in jail today
And for speaking out for human rights and justice
His loss of freedom is the price he pay.

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The Man Who Was Standing Behind

I was in a conference centre full of people,
and a man called out my name.
His voice was louder than the chattering,
and he shouted it out again.

His voice wasn’t at all familiar,
and no one knew I was here.
This was a lonely hearts club meeting
for singles who also enjoyed a beer.

For a third time he called out my name,
and my I.D. tag gave me away.
The woman with whom I was talking
waved her arms and shouted “Hey.”

I left her presence quite quickly
and became lost in the crowd.
I didn’t look to see who was calling,
but he was persistent and shouting loud.

People all around me were fainting,
for no reason they dropped like flies,
but then I heard leather to wood footsteps
above the peoples’ sighs and cries.

I slowly looked all around me
and somehow I knew it was my time,
I was leaving one way or another,
with the man who was standing behind.

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The Man Who Gifted Me Nothing, But A Patronym

The Son of a monster, and a very proud Mother:
I have lived a very humble life, and would wish for no other,
But if I had one regret it would be my blind allegiance
To a man that did not deserve the same-the balance
Of my life since that fateful Christmas day,
Has been filled with bitter confusion-I pray
That I will one day stop blaming myself for what he did
By never cowering from it, the way he hid
From his demons and ghosts, presenting a narrow view
To a Son who loved him, yet who never knew.
Had I known then what I know now,
I would have rid myself of the disdain I show now
For all I know he was, in spite of outward appearance.
I carry shame for my continued adherence
To the image of the man I thought I knew:
An idyllic image of a Father, which got me through
And past all of the hate I thought I had for him-
The man who gifted me nothing, but a patronym.

-Maurice Harris,5 June 2012

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The Man Who Would Be Santa

And the man who would be santa slips into the room
And the hour of daylights yet to come but he hopes they dont wake too soon
All the presents wrapped in paper and tied with a bow
The children sleep upstairs and santa works below
And he can hear the children dreaming
Chorus
And he says
All I want is for you to have
A life you love and live
Take from me all I have to give
Because you are in my heart
And the man who would be santa tells his son to write
And to call him if he needs him in the middle of the night
Dont you worry dont you cry now youll do just fine
Your mother and I love you
We think about you all the time
And he can see the train is leaving
Chorus
Now the old man sits and tells of days when time stood still
The hours always seem to fade but the memory never will
All the love that you gave me
All the dreams in the night
And I just want to thank you while the days still light
But I can see the sun is setting
Chorus

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The Man Who Would Be Santa (live)

And the man who would be Santa slips into the room
And the hour of daylight's yet to come but he hopes they don't wake too soon
All the presents wrapped in paper and tied with a bow
The children sleep upstairs and Santa works below
And he can hear the children dreaming
Chorus
And he says
All I want is for you to have
A life you love and live
Take from me all I have to give
Because you are in my heart
And the man who would be Santa tells his son to write
And to call him if he needs him in the middle of the night
Don't you worry don't you cry now you'll do just fine
Your mother and I love you
We think about you all the time
And he can see the train is leaving
Chorus
Now the old man sits and tells of days when time stood still
The hours always seem to fade but the memory never will
All the love that you gave me
All the dreams in the night
And I just want to thank you while the day's still light
But I can see the sun is setting
Chorus

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