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If you call on God to improve the results of a shot while it is still in motion, you are using 'an outside agency' and subject to appropriate penalties under the rules of golf.

quote by Henry Longhurst
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Adrienne Vittadini

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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Handles Bermuda

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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Luggage Canada

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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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One Shot At Love

One shot
Oh lord
You know, its gonna be a lot of negative things surroundin you
Tryin to pull you down
But what you have to remember is
Its up to you - its your choice
You only get one shot in life
And you only get one shot at love
Did you ever notice - everytime you fall in love
And it seems like you finally met the perfect match
Everything is perfect, it seems divine
But for some strange reason, theres always a catch
Its a one-way relationship, it hurts inside
One person smirks while the other one cries
Butterflies in the stomach of the one whose in love
It cuts like a knife, the truth mixed with lies
One shot (one shot at love..)
One shot at love, one shot (one shot at love..)
One shot at love, one shot (one shot at love..)
One shot at love, one shot (one shot at love..)
Thats all you get
Physical and mental, those are two different loves
Physicals a moment, mental is forever
If the physical fades and gets weak, all of a sudden
Remember, its the mental love that keeps you together
You gotta be strong and endure the hard times
Cause af-ter hard times, good times, always follow
And when youre kissin and huggin and makin love
Treat that person like theres no tomorrow
One shot (one shot at love..)
One shot at love, one shot (one shot at love..)
Thats all you get baby; one shot at love, one shot (one shot at love..)
One shot at love, one.. shot.. (one shot at love..)
Thats all you get {*sniff*}
Jealousy - dont let it interfere
Dont let it come in between
The love you two share, cause jealousys a hateful god
So merciless and mean
And its only job in life, is to ruin relationships
And pit two people against, one another
And because of this god, the one you love so much
Will no longer be your lover
One shot (one shot at love..)
Aww baby, one shot at love, one shot (one shot at love..)
Thats all we get, one shot at love, one shot (one shot at love..)
I mean this baby, one shot at love, one shot (one shot at love..)
Thats all..
I hope you understand what I just said
All Im sayin is that you only get one shot at love in life
And you have to hold on to that shot, take advantage of it

[...] Read more

song performed by LL Cool J
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Trash Bag

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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Fitration Bags

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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Golf Tees Lament

Golf tees on my dresser
Golf tees in my bed
Golf tees on my pillows
Where they poke me in my head

Golf tees in my closet
Falling from my shirts and pants
Golf tees along the baseboards
Just like army ants

Golf tees in the carpet
And underneath my feet
Golf tees lined up on the mantle
Oh, they look so neat

Golf tees in my couch
And in my back and thighs
When I sit and watch TV
I feel those little guys

Golf tees in the kitchen
In Jurassic coffee mugs
Sometimes when I pass them
They look like prehistoric bugs.

Golf tees in the bathtub
Like sailors on plastic ships
Golf tee in her make-up
Like little bald q-tips.

Golf tees in the attic
Golf tees in the shed
Golf tees, golf tees everywhere
I wonder where they bred?

Golf tees out the backdoor
Like Hansel-and-Gretel’s trails
Golf tees in the flowerbeds
Among the mulch and snails

Golf tees in my car
And underneath the mats
Golf tees in the backseat
Like little baseball bats

But when I am at the golf course
I ask my partner, like a louse…
“May I borrow some of your tees? ”
I left mine at the house!

poem by Larry Buddin
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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)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Satan Absolved

(In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groups conversing.)
Satan. To--day is the Lord's ``day.'' Once more on His good pleasure
I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure
Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of God.
How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood,
Its old--world furniture, its linen long in press,
Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!
Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me
Intoxicates and haunts,--and hurts. Who would not be
God's liveried servant here, the slave of His behest,
Rather than reign outside? I like good things the best,
Fair things, things innocent; and gladly, if He willed,
Would enter His Saints' kingdom--even as a little child.

[Laughs. I have come to make my peace, to crave a full amaun,
Peace, pardon, reconcilement, truce to our daggers--drawn,
Which have so long distraught the fair wise Universe,
An end to my rebellion and the mortal curse
Of always evil--doing. He will mayhap agree
I was less wholly wrong about Humanity
The day I dared to warn His wisdom of that flaw.
It was at least the truth, the whole truth, I foresaw
When He must needs create that simian ``in His own
Image and likeness.'' Faugh! the unseemly carrion!
I claim a new revision and with proofs in hand,
No Job now in my path to foil me and withstand.
Oh, I will serve Him well!
[Certain Angels approach. But who are these that come
With their grieved faces pale and eyes of martyrdom?
Not our good Sons of God? They stop, gesticulate,
Argue apart, some weep,--weep, here within Heaven's gate!
Sob almost in God's sight! ay, real salt human tears,
Such as no Spirit wept these thrice three thousand years.
The last shed were my own, that night of reprobation
When I unsheathed my sword and headed the lost nation.
Since then not one of them has spoken above his breath
Or whispered in these courts one word of life or death
Displeasing to the Lord. No Seraph of them all,
Save I this day each year, has dared to cross Heaven's hall
And give voice to ill news, an unwelcome truth to Him.
Not Michael's self hath dared, prince of the Seraphim.
Yet all now wail aloud.--What ails ye, brethren? Speak!
Are ye too in rebellion? Angels. Satan, no. But weak
With our long earthly toil, the unthankful care of Man.

Satan. Ye have in truth good cause.

Angels. And we would know God's plan,
His true thought for the world, the wherefore and the why
Of His long patience mocked, His name in jeopardy.

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Poem: Will You Travel With Me To Heaven?

When you wake up in the morning
From a dream you think is okay
You see your spouse and family
Get ready for another day

The dream you saw, the things you see
The bed on which you soundly sleep
Your kids all grown up, your husband
And old memories that you keep

Who do you think created them?
Were they created from nothing?
If there is no god who made these
All, then what's the point of living?

D'you think we were made from nothing
Then from nothing we live for fun
To eat and drink, to love and hate
Then when we die, what comes is none?

The eyes with which your body sees
Those sockets that keep your eyeballs
The mouth you use for food and speech
The way you answer random calls

The languages you use to speak
And another –your mother tongue-
The way you carry yourself, and
How you breathe through your heart and lungs

The muscles that stretch when you smile
Your friends who often make you laugh
The words you try to understand
And how you sign your name so fast

Your kids who once stayed in your womb
The months you carried them in you
Your feelings when you saw their first
Walk and when they smile back at you

The food you eat and cook each day
The rainfalls that fall from above
The earth you walk on each night and

[...] Read more

poem by Miriam Mababaya
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Sex Never Goes Out Of Fashion

She's the kind of girl who likes to do it stand up
From the back or anyway you want it, love
From the top if you keep it going all night
You're as good as the next for a fun time
Lookie here like a rabbit on the dancefloor
Party girl like you comin' in the back door
"c'mon boy, give it good, give an encore.."
Never leave a hungry sister begging one more
You keep it good and she'll beat you at your own game
Flip a switch and she's crying out her own name
Keep a lady happy as a little lamb
Give her head and you're riding on a sure shot
It's a sure shot... Honey, it's a sure shot
It's a sure shot, sure shot, sure shot
It's a sure shot... Honey, it's a sure shot
It's a sure shot, sure shot, sure shot
It's a sure shot... Honey, it's a sure shot
It's a sure shot, sure shot, sure shot
Wham bam slam it like a mama's man
Baby's on her back doin' the can-can
Such a babe-licious poco loco
Make her bob, make her beg and sweat it hardcore
Honky tonky lovin' keep her trembling
Funky style's never out of fashion, man
Keep it fresh with something for the weekend
Get some, daddy... You're riding on a sure shot
It's a sure shot... Honey, it's a sure shot
It's a sure shot, sure shot, sure shot
It's a sure shot... Honey, it's a sure shot
It's a sure shot, sure shot, sure shot
It's a sure shot... Honey, it's a sure shot
It's a sure shot, sure shot, sure shot
A little bit more
(Down her legs)
A little bit more
(Down her back)
A little bit more
(Down her neck)
A little bit more
(Down her arms)
A little bit more
(Down her breast)
A little bit m

song performed by Garbage
Added by Lucian Velea
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VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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We Live So Fast

Please dont ask me to stay
Im leaving this town
Dont worry now
Believe me as I believe that
Luck is on my side
The future is mine
If I can find
A way through these strange days of my life
We live so fast
Motion, motion
No time to waste
Use it, use it
We live so fast
Motion, motion
Make the first step and reach out for tomorrow
We live so fast
Motion, motion
We cant stand still
Move it, move it
We live so fast
Motion, motion
Move out of my way its time to make it happen
The streets deserted and cold
Theyre not paved with gold
But I dont care
For those who think young will still survive
Making their move
Hoping to prove
That they can face
This big city, small world, big time
We live so fast
Motion, motion
No time to waste
Use it, use it
We live so fast
Motion, motion
Make the first step and reach out for tomorrow
We live so fast
Motion, motion
We cant stand still
Move it, move it
We live so fast
Motion, motion
Move out of my way its time to make it happen
But now I know their ways
I found my place
Saw their true face
Theres nothing to stay for so Ill go
Ill pick up the phone
Still searching for home

[...] Read more

song performed by Heaven 17
Added by Lucian Velea
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Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 2

LET PETER rejoice with the MOON FISH who keeps up the life in the waters by night.

Let Andrew rejoice with the Whale, who is array'd in beauteous blue and is a combination of bulk and activity.

Let James rejoice with the Skuttle-Fish, who foils his foe by the effusion of his ink.

Let John rejoice with Nautilus who spreads his sail and plies his oar, and the Lord is his pilot.

Let Philip rejoice with Boca, which is a fish that can speak.

Let Bartholomew rejoice with the Eel, who is pure in proportion to where he is found and how he is used.

Let Thomas rejoice with the Sword-Fish, whose aim is perpetual and strength insuperable.

Let Matthew rejoice with Uranoscopus, whose eyes are lifted up to God.

Let James the less, rejoice with the Haddock, who brought the piece of money for the Lord and Peter.

Let Jude bless with the Bream, who is of melancholy from his depth and serenity.

Let Simon rejoice with the Sprat, who is pure and innumerable.

Let Matthias rejoice with the Flying-Fish, who has a part with the birds, and is sublimity in his conceit.

Let Stephen rejoice with Remora -- The Lord remove all obstacles to his glory.

Let Paul rejoice with the Scale, who is pleasant and faithful!, like God's good ENGLISHMAN.

Let Agrippa, which is Agricola, rejoice with Elops, who is a choice fish.

Let Joseph rejoice with the Turbut, whose capture makes the poor fisher-man sing.

Let Mary rejoice with the Maid -- blessed be the name of the immaculate CONCEPTION.

Let John, the Baptist, rejoice with the Salmon -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus for infant Baptism.

Let Mark rejoice with the Mullet, who is John Dore, God be gracious to him and his family.

Let Barnabus rejoice with the Herring -- God be gracious to the Lord's fishery.

Let Cleopas rejoice with the Mackerel, who cometh in a shoal after a leader.

Let Abiud of the Lord's line rejoice with Murex, who is good and of a precious tincture.

Let Eliakim rejoice with the Shad, who is contemned in his abundance.

Let Azor rejoice with the Flounder, who is both of the sea and of the river,

Let Sadoc rejoice with the Bleak, who playeth upon the surface in the Sun.

[...] Read more

poem by Christopher Smart
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The Interpretation of Nature and

I.

MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.


II.

Neither the naked hand nor the understanding left to itself can effect much. It is by instruments and helps that the work is done, which are as much wanted for the understanding as for the hand. And as the instruments of the hand either give motion or guide it, so the instruments of the mind supply either suggestions for the understanding or cautions.

III.

Human knowledge and human power meet in one; for where the cause is not known the effect cannot be produced. Nature to be commanded must be obeyed; and that which in contemplation is as the cause is in operation as the rule.

IV.

Towards the effecting of works, all that man can do is to put together or put asunder natural bodies. The rest is done by nature working within.

V.

The study of nature with a view to works is engaged in by the mechanic, the mathematician, the physician, the alchemist, and the magician; but by all (as things now are) with slight endeavour and scanty success.

VI.

It would be an unsound fancy and self-contradictory to expect that things which have never yet been done can be done except by means which have never yet been tried.

VII.

The productions of the mind and hand seem very numerous in books and manufactures. But all this variety lies in an exquisite subtlety and derivations from a few things already known; not in the number of axioms.

VIII.

Moreover the works already known are due to chance and experiment rather than to sciences; for the sciences we now possess are merely systems for the nice ordering and setting forth of things already invented; not methods of invention or directions for new works.

IX.

The cause and root of nearly all evils in the sciences is this -- that while we falsely admire and extol the powers of the human mind we neglect to seek for its true helps.

X.

The subtlety of nature is greater many times over than the subtlety of the senses and understanding; so that all those specious meditations, speculations, and glosses in which men indulge are quite from the purpose, only there is no one by to observe it.

XI.

As the sciences which we now have do not help us in finding out new works, so neither does the logic which we now have help us in finding out new sciences.

XII.

The logic now in use serves rather to fix and give stability to the errors which have their foundation in commonly received notions than to help the search after truth. So it does more harm than good.

XIII.

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Francis Bacon
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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

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An Essay on Criticism

Part I

INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,

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poem by Alexander Pope
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Paradise Lost: Book X

Thus they in lowliest plight repentant stood
Praying, for from the Mercie-seat above
Prevenient Grace descending had remov'd
The stonie from thir hearts, and made new flesh
Regenerat grow instead, that sighs now breath'd
Unutterable, which the Spirit of prayer
Inspir'd, and wing'd for Heav'n with speedier flight
Then loudest Oratorie: yet thir port
Not of mean suiters, nor important less
Seem'd thir Petition, then when th' ancient Pair
In Fables old, less ancient yet then these,
Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha to restore
The Race of Mankind drownd, before the Shrine
Of Themis stood devout. To Heav'n thir prayers
Flew up, nor missed the way, by envious windes
Blow'n vagabond or frustrate: in they passd
Dimentionless through Heav'nly dores; then clad
With incense, where the Golden Altar fum'd,
By thir great Intercessor, came in sight
Before the Fathers Throne: Them the glad Son
Presenting, thus to intercede began.
See Father, what first fruits on Earth are sprung
From thy implanted Grace in Man, these Sighs
And Prayers, which in this Golden Censer, mixt
With Incense, I thy Priest before thee bring,
Fruits of more pleasing savour from thy seed
Sow'n with contrition in his heart, then those
Which his own hand manuring all the Trees
Of Paradise could have produc't, ere fall'n
From innocence. Now therefore bend thine eare
To supplication, heare his sighs though mute;
Unskilful with what words to pray, let mee
Interpret for him, mee his Advocate
And propitiation, all his works on mee
Good or not good ingraft, my Merit those
Shall perfet, and for these my Death shall pay.
Accept me, and in mee from these receave
The smell of peace toward Mankinde, let him live
Before thee reconcil'd, at least his days
Numberd, though sad, till Death, his doom (which I
To mitigate thus plead, not to reverse)
To better life shall yeeld him, where with mee
All my redeemd may dwell in joy and bliss,
Made one with me as I with thee am one.
To whom the Father, without Cloud, serene.
All thy request for Man, accepted Son,
Obtain, all thy request was my Decree:
But longer in that Paradise to dwell,
The Law I gave to Nature him forbids:
Those pure immortal Elements that know

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poem by John Milton
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Forward Motion

Whoa-o...Ive been banging my head against the wall
Whoa-o...for so long it seems I knocked it down, yeah it got knocked down
Whoa-o...and the heating bill went through the roof
Whoa-o...and the wall I knocked down was the proof
That my landlord needed to kick me out
I got evicted now Im living on the street
My spirits lifted...oh wait, that wasnt me
Too many turns have turned out to be wrong
This time I learned that, I knew it all along
When car crashes occur
Then Ill be what you were
When I see what I should
When I see that its good (that its good)
To experience the bittersweet
To taste defeat
Then brush my teeth
Experience the bittersweet
To taste defeat
Then brush my teeth
Cause I struggle with forward motion
I struggle with forward motion
We all struggle with forward motion
Cause forward motion is harder than it sounds
Well everytime I gain some ground
I gotta turn myself around again
Its harder than it sounds
Well everytime I gain some ground
I gotta turn myself around again
Whoa-o...Ive been banging my head against the wall
Whoa-o...for so long it seems I got knocked out. yeah, I got knocked out cold
Whoa-o...and the medical bills went through the roof
Whoa-o...and the scar on my head is the proof
That Ill still remember this when I get old
I got evicted now Im living on the street
My spirits lifted...oh wait, that wasnt me
Too many turns have turned out to be wrong
This time I learned that, I knew it all along
When I grasp the concept
Then Ill sleep where you slept
When I know I need help
When I allow myself (allow myself)
To experience the bittersweet
To taste defeat
Then brush your teeth
Experience the bittersweet
To taste defeat
Then brush your teeth
Cause I struggle with forward motion
I struggle with forward motion
We all struggle with forward motion

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song performed by Relient K
Added by Lucian Velea
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Our God is a God of mercy and of grace. (Gerald Albright's Kicking it up #6)

God, I just do not understand why
You treat me so good everyday.
In spite of all of my sins and all of my mistakes,
You are still good to me.
Yes, you are; my God really is.

My God is so wonderful.
He has provided for all of my needs.
He created the sun to shine brightly everyday.
God has supplied the very air that I breathe.
Yes, He does.

My God is so good to me each day.
He has provided for all of my needs.
God sends out the cooling invisible breeze.
He produced all of the food that I eat.
Yes he does; now help me say it.

Our God is a God of mercy.
He truly deserves all of our praise.
Our God is a God of mercy and of grace.
O’ Yes, I know that our God is.

Our God is a God of mercy.
He wakes us up every single day.
Our God is a God of mercy and of grace.
O’ Yes, I know that our God is.

My God is so wonderful.
He provides me with His grace each day.
All I need to do is confess my sins to Him,
He has promised to forgive every one.
Yes, He does.
All that God has ask me to do
Is give to Him all of my praise every day.
By the life that I have chosen to live
I must show the world that my God is.
Now open your mouth and help me praise Him.

Our God is a God of mercy.
He truly deserves all of our praise.
Our God is a God of mercy and of grace.
O’ Yes, I know that our God is.

Our God is a God of mercy.
He wakes us up every single day.
Our God is a God of mercy and of grace.
O’ Yes, I know that our God is.

Our God is a God of mercy and of grace.

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poem by Reginald Walker
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