If you're going to tell people the truth, be funny or they'll kill you.
quote by Billy Wilder
Added by Lucian Velea
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poem by David Keig
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Adria, Adria, Adria Why Are You So Funny?
adria moya, hmm you do not like your name to be written in the poem
the problem with me is that
i am hardheaded and i am the kind of boy who does what mother
does not like me to do
i am naughty and so here i am
in all my mischief
adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny? adria, adria, why are you so funny?
hahahaha hahahaha hahahaha hahahaha hahahaha hahahaha hahahaha ha
do you see the train of hahahaha
come let us ride on it and forget the sad things of our lives
i will make another one the train of
tralalatralalatralalatralalatralalatralal atralalatralalatralalatralalatralalatralalatralal atralalatralalatralala
it is the train of dance and laughter
come, come, come,
let us be there, what is the use of being what they want you to be?
the place is here and it must be a place of fun and laughter
and something so divine later.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It's Not Funny!
IT'S NOT FUNNY!
Times are changing and the world is flaming,
from disappointment, it's so sad that we can't even see it.
Blinded by the outsiders that bring fear to us, but it
Is we that fear us. It's not funny when you have to sit back and
destroy yourself just to fit into this typical place.
It's not funny when you sit back and let people judge you because
you're not what they expect you to be.
It's not funny when teachers with the same skin as you
break you down like you're a piece of trash that can be thrown away.
It's not funny when we fight our own because we don't rep something that means nothing.
It's not funny when we're facing a war at home that
Has No Point!
It's not funny when you can't tell the difference from what yes
and no feels like.
It's not funny when you look in the mirror and don't notice you.
It's not funny when you don't break the stereotype that marks where your future goes.
It's not funny when you can't be yourself with another race of friends.
It's not funny when the word N***er can't be said by a race that has been driven through hell, but is okay for the next person.
It's not funny that hip- hop is just about sex and not the struggle that is in our neighborhoods.
It's not funny when your community is plagued by death, drugs, and lies.
It's not funny when people fall into the gap that has been left as a trap.
It's not funny when we thrive for money, cars, and clothes.
It's not funny when success isn't success anymore.
It's not funny when we live to die and die to live.
It's not funny when we deal our own cards and then it's not what it's cracked up to be.
It's not funny when females settle for less.
It's not funny when females settle for a job as a video vixen or an exotic dancer.
It's not funny when guys settle for a future at the morgue.
It's not funny when Hollywood is set as paradise and anywhere else is imitation.
It's not funny when you have a future of guns, gangs, and death.
It's not funny when we plan our own funeral.
It's not funny when we change our hair, breast, teeth, butts, and clothes just because it looks better.
It's not funny when we don't look to God anymore for answers.
It's not funny when the world isn't a world anymore it's just a mark of death.
It's just not funny!
(inspiration for this poem is the death of Derrion Albert and all those lost in a battle they weren't meant to fight wrong plagues this earth and we have to realize how to live free and not in fear.)
poem by Erika Peace
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Funny How Love Is
Funny how love is everywhere just look and see
Funny how love is anywhere you're bound to be
Funny how love is every song in every key
Funny how love is coming home in time for tea
Funny funny funny oh
Funny how love is the end of the lies
When the truth begins tomorrow comes
Tomorrow brings tomorrow brings love
In the shape of things
That's what love is that's what love is
Funny how love can break your heart so suddenly
Funny how love came tumbling down with Adam and Eve
Funny how love is running wild feeling free
Funny how love is coming home in time for tea
Funny funny funny oh
From the earth below to the heavens above
That's how far and funny is love
At any time anywhere
If you gotta make love do it everywhere
That's what love is that's what love is
Funny how love is everywhere just look and see
Funny how love is anywhere you're bound to be
Funny how love is every song in every key
Funny how love is when you gotta hurry
Because you're late for tea
Funny funny funny oh
Tommorrow comes tomorrow brings
Tomorrow brings love in the shape of things
At any time anywhere
If you gotta make love do it everywhere
That's what love is that's what love is
song performed by Queen from Queen II
Added by Lucian Velea
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Truth and Reality (Opinion)
Daily at the end of my "anusthaanam"-(spiritual ritual) ", I make a strong, fervent and sincere prayer to the Divinity that intellectuals and scholars in the world should be fearless and speak the truth without any inhibitions. This has been the tradition of our ancestors and speaking truth is essential for the benefit of the society and the society will be able to know the actualities and act on them.
Normally the rulers do not like the truth to be known. Also leaders of ideologies, religions, their supporters and the like also do not like the truth to be known to the ordinary people. The writers are normally and should be fearless such that the ills and evils in the society are exposed and remedial measures are taken. But what is truth?
Truth is what it is or as it is irrespective of perceptions of the individuals. Reality is what we see of truth; how much we see of truth. Reality is always dictated by our mental make-up, likes, dislikes, limitations in our ability and willingness to see, view, comprehend and accept the truth. Reality is individual's perception of the truth. Truth, most of the times, is only perceived and rarely understood or experienced. Thus reality is limited truth. Reality is either inability to be truthful or inability and limitations of the individual to see the truth unbiased. Also truth corresponds to the individual, about himself, his Self and the reality corresponds to the objective world within and without the body of the individual.
Real situations are compromised states of existence in the attempt of pursuit of the truth. We all talk about truth limited by our perception and not the truth most of the times. We have compulsions inbuilt, acquired or imagined not to accept the truth and allow truth to be spoken or spread through us. But truth is a flowing river. It may flood us but it never dries up. On the other the reality is like a stagnated lake. Our fear of repercussions taking place if we speak, accept or propagate truth, make us real and not truthful. We prefer peaceful and calm life. We call that realistic approach and adjust and compromise.
Thus, most of the times, we are not truthful. We are all limited and confined to our perceptions of truth. Truth is best revealed when understood or experienced. But we rarely get such insight. All our knowledge and information is hearsay through books, newspapers, magazines, radio and TV news channels, web sites etc, . We are all aware that these books and news items are filtered through the editors and owners of these media. Thus the perceptions of these responsible and financing individuals decide the truth content in the item. We pick up these as truth and argue or form our own perceptions. Sometimes the editorial policy of the editors or owners of these media do not allow truth as it is to reach us when they find it objectionable in that form. Thus truth is never completely known or allowed to be known and hence not completely comprehended. The fears, imaginations, illusions shape our perceptions and our comprehension of the truth. Many times it appears that no absolute truth exists or known, perceived or understood and experienced. Just as feelings and perceptions of good and bad and other qualities, truth is also relative as "truth to me", "truth to him", "truth to you", "truth to them" and a truth accepted by all is not possible and available to be expressed, accepted or spread and we all mistake our perceptions of truth as truth without understanding or experiencing the truth. But truth is like fire. It can not be hidden or held in hand.
the palm. Truth sneaks through our cautions and suppression and declares itself.
poem by Varanasi Ramabrahmam
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Funny Thing
A funny thing to do
Is everyone like you
'Cause people seldom change
They all just stay the same
A funny htin to say
Suppose you're just that way
Although you're sure you're sure
There really is no cure
A funny kind of way
A funny kind of day
You're funny all the time
Do you want a piece of mine
Cause I've seen it all before
When you're closing all the doors
It's not funny anymore
A funny thing to do
Because the sky was blue
You ran away for good
Cause no one understood
The funny things you said
Because the sky was red
A funny kind of way
A funny kind of day
You're funny all the time
Do you want a piece of mine
Cause I've seen it all before
When you're closing all the doors
It's not funny anymore
A funny kind of way
A funny kind of day
You're funny all the time
Do you want a piece of mine
Cause I've seen it all before
When you're closing all the doors
It's not funny anymore
A funny thing to do
Is everyone like you
Cause people seldom change
They all just stay the same
song performed by Travis from Good Feeling
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I. The Ring and the Book
Do you see this Ring?
'T is Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick,
(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,—
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap:
Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,
Effects a manageable mass, then works:
But his work ended, once the thing a ring,
Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt
O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face,
And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume;
While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains,
The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,
Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore:
Prime nature with an added artistry—
No carat lost, and you have gained a ring.
What of it? 'T is a figure, a symbol, say;
A thing's sign: now for the thing signified.
Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss
I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about
By the crumpled vellum covers,—pure crude fact
Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard,
And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since?
Examine it yourselves! I found this book,
Gave a lira for it, eightpence English just,
(Mark the predestination!) when a Hand,
Always above my shoulder, pushed me once,
One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm,
Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths,
Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time,
Toward Baccio's marble,—ay, the basement-ledge
O' the pedestal where sits and menaces
John of the Black Bands with the upright spear,
'Twixt palace and church,—Riccardi where they lived,
His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy
I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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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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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society
Epigraph
Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.
I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.
You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning (1871)
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Funnny? .. Not So Much
it's funny how hello
is always accompanied by good bye
it's funny how good memories
can start to make you cry
it's funny how forever
never seems to last
it's funny how much you'd lose
if you forgot about your past
it's funny how good friends
can just leave you when your down
it's funny how when you need someone
they're nowhere to be found
it's funny how people change
to make themselfs seem better
it's funny how many lies
are packed into one love letter
it's funny how people can forgive
but they can never really forget
it's funny how one night
can be filled with so many regrets
it; s funny how ironic
lifes turns out to be
it's funny how none of these things
seem really funny to me
poem by Jessica Richards
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Ballad Of Jesus Of Nazareth
I.
It matters not what place he drew
At first life's mortal breath,
Some say it was in Bethlehem,
And some in Nazareth.
But shame and sorrow were his lot
And shameful was his death.
The angels sang, and o'er the barn
Wherein the infant lay,
They hung a star, for they foresaw
The sad world's better day,
But well God knew what thyme and rue
Were planted by his way.
The children of the Pharisees
In hymn and orison
Worshipped the prophets, whom their sires
To cruel death had done,
And said, 'had we been there their death
We had not looked upon.'
While the star shone the angels saw
The tombs these children built
For those the world had driven out,
And smitten to the hilt,
God knew these wretched sons would bear
The self-same bloody guilt.
Always had he who strives for men
But done some other thing,
If he had not led a hermit life,
Or had not had his fling,
We would have followed him, they say,
And made him lord and King.
For John was clothed in camel's hair
And lived among the brutes;
But Jesus fared where the feast was spread
To the sound of shawms and lutes,
Where gathered knaves and publicans
And hapless prostitutes.
Like children in the market place
Who sullen sat and heard,
With John they would not mourn, nor yet
Rejoice at Jesus' word;
Had Jesus mourned, or John rejoiced,
He had been King and lord.
[...] Read more
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Funny, But Not So Funny
Funny am I
How at this point of my life
That I'll ever see such as these
That people find it humorous
Of which I don't, at least, not as much
To live a life of folly.
Funny is it
How this world evolve with things
Looking real when everyone knows
That it isn't all there is to it
Wanting 'em with their life at stake
Wishing like nothing in carelessness.
Funny, but not so funny
For people could think as such
Like no one will know of it;
For people could do as such
Like there is no a payback for it;
Funny, but not so funny.
Funny, but not so funny
When such a time comes
As the world evolves
So is what have been sown
May not be at your lifetime
But to the lives of the generation to come.
Funny, but not so funny
When given a time to live
But only not many have the thought of it
Living a life just to get by
Is not what accounted for
But living under the will of God.
Funny, but not so funny... at least, not just yet.
poem by Mary Louise Mann Gabumpa
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The Truth The Whole Truth And Nothing But The Truth
Lonely days lonely nights
Hoping thing's gonna turn out right
You had me hanging on a string
For you I did most anything
You don't give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Its a blind mans eye baby ain't no youth
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Don't need your lies I got my proof
Put your face up to my window
Ask me baby what did I see
Well I know I know you ain't right
I know you ain't right for me
You don't give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little baby's got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
All I want is the truth
All I want is the truth
All I want is
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Blind mans eye baby ain't no use
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Don't need your lies I got nothing to prove
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little baby's got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
Don't hurt ya
Don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
Don't hurt ya don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
(fade)
song performed by Ian Hunter
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Truth Whole Truth, Nuthin But The Truth
(ian hunter)
Lonely days lonely nights
Hoping things gonna turn out right
You had me hanging on a string
For you I did most anything
You dont give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Its a blind mans eye baby aint no youth
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Dont need your lies I got my proof
Put your face up to my window
Ask me baby what did I see
Well I know I know you aint right
I know you aint right for me
You dont give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little babys got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
All I want is the truth
All I want is the truth
All I want is
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Blind mans eye baby aint no use
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Dont need your lies I got nothing to prove
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little babys got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
Dont hurt ya
Dont hurt ya
The truth dont hurt ya
The truth dont hurt ya
Dont hurt ya dont hurt ya
The truth dont hurt ya
(fade)
song performed by Ian Hunter
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Truth, The Whole Truth, Nuthin' But The Truth
(ian hunter)
Lonely days lonely nights
Hoping thing's gonna turn out right
You had me hanging on a string
For you i did most anything
You don't give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Its a blind mans eye baby ain't no youth
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Don't need your lies i got my proof
Put your face up to my window
Ask me baby what did i see
Well i know i know you ain't right
I know you ain't right for me
You don't give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little baby's got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
All i want is the truth
All i want is the truth
All i want is
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Blind mans eye baby ain't no use
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Don't need your lies i got nothing to prove
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little baby's got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
Don't hurt ya
Don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
Don't hurt ya don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
(fade)
song performed by Ian Hunter
Added by Lucian Velea
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Its funny how
Its funny how hello is always accompanied with good-bye
Its funny how remembering good memories can make you cry
Its funny how forever never seems to really last
Its funny how much you'd lose if you forgot your past
Its funny how friends can just leave you when you're down
Its funny how when you need someone there never around
Its funny how people can change and think there so much betta
Its funny how many lies can be packed into one love letta
Its funny how people can forgive even tho they cant forget
Its funny how one night can catain of so much regret
Its funny how crazy and ironic life turns out to be
but the funniest part of all is that none of that seems funny to me
poem by Heather Noble
Added by Poetry Lover
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Funny?
It's funny how hello is always accompanied with goodbye
It's funny how good memories can start to make you cry
It's funny how forever never seems to really last
It's funny how much you'd loose if you forgot about your past
It's funny how friends can just leave you when you're down
It's funny how when you need someone they're never around
It's funny how people can change and think they're so much better
It's funny how many lies can be packed in one ''love letter''
It's funny how people can forgive even though they can't forget
It's funny how one night can contain so much regret
It's funny how ironic life turns out to be,
But the funniest part,
Is that none of it is funny...
To me.
poem by Patrick 'the pyropoet' littrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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Funny, But Then Not...
Its funny how hello is alway accompanied with goodbye,
Its funny how good memories can start to make you cry.
Its funny how forever never really seems to last,
Its funny how much you'd lose if you forgot about your past.
Its funny how 'friends' can just leave you when your down,
Its funny how when you need someone their never around.
Its funny how people change and think they're so much better,
Its funny how many lies can be packed into one 'love letter'.
Its funny how people forgive even though they cant forget,
Its funny how one night can contain so much regret.
Its funny how ironic life turns out to be,
But the funniest part of all...
Is that none of thats funny to me
poem by Daniela X. Daraz
Added by Poetry Lover
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