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When you get to that level, it's not a matter of talent anymore - because all the players are so talented - it's about preparation, about playing smart and making good decisions.

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Wait Any More

Written by: myles goodwyn
Youre a restless girl
To drive a man insane
With the same old story
You play the same old games
You could always make it easy
But there was no way out
If you want, just say that youre sorry
But theres nothing you can do without
So give a little and take a little for nothing
Show a little and make it something exciting
I just wont take it any more
Im not gonna wait anymore
I just wont take anymore take anymore take anymore from you
Im not gonna wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore
Another restless moment
Another runaround
Almost picture perfect
But no life can be found
Wont you make it easy
So we can play for keeps
Under pressure for the moment
Dont you know what everyone can see
So give a little and take a little for nothing
Show a little and make it something exciting
Ill tell ya
Im not gonna take anymore take anymore from you
I just wont wait anymore I swear this love is through
Im not gonna take anymore take anymore from you
I just wont wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore
So give a little and take a little for nothing
Show a little and make it something exciting
Ill tell ya
I just wont take anymore
I just wont take anymore
Im not gonna take anymore take anymore from you
Im not gonna wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore
Im not gonna take anymore take anymore from you
Im not gonna wait anymore wait anymore from you
Im not gonna take anymore take anymore take anymore take anymore
Im not gonna wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore wait anymore

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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

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Hidden Talent

Written by gerry beckley, 1998
Found on human nature.
Just like a person from another world
My eyes can see inside you, little girl
I see things that you dont want to see
I see things youre trying to hide from me
Im just trying to make you understand
All the ways you can affect this man
From the moment that you came in touch
With the power there to burn so much
Youve got hidden talent (yeah)
I bet youre gonna find some hidden talent, oh
You know your past is whats been bugging you
If youre ready girl ... do what you gotta do
Look for your life between the lines
Bad directions and poor designs
Youve got hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
I bet youre gonna find some hidden talent, oh
Hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
Check it out you ... got it, hidden talent, oh
With the advantage of perspective i
See theres more to you than meets the eye
But now the time must come to spread your wings and fly
Yeah (hidden talent) yeah
Hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
I bet youre gonna find some hidden talent, oh
Hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
Check it out ... you got it, hidden talent, oh
Hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
Affair without warning
Hidden talent, mmm (mmm)
Hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
I bet youre gonna find some hidden talent, oh
(fade)

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Soccer–Passion Song

Soccer–Passion Song

Soccer in the evening;
Soccer in the morning;
Soccer in spring and fall.

Soccer in the raining;
Soccer in the snowing;
Soccer in winter and summer.

Soccer in between my feet,
where I walk;
Soccer in my heart and mind,
how I live;
Soccer my love and life.

Soccer I wake up and play;
Soccer I hold it to sleep;
Soccer my work and rest.

Soccer I sing a new song;
Soccer I dance the magic steps;
Soccer my tears and joy.

Soccer my Mom buys it for me to play;
Soccer my Dad brings me to the game;
Soccer my dear Love watches me to score.

Soccer I dribble and shoot;
Soccer I pass and fall;
Soccer my glory and downfall.

Soccer I strike to attack;
Soccer I tackle to defend;
Soccer my struggle and survival.

Soccer I receive the flags and the whistles;
Soccer I get the yellow and red card;
Soccer my moves and stop.

Soccer I meet my friends;
Soccer I make my enemies;
Soccer my conflict and peace.

Soccer I play and watch;
Soccer I watch but cannot play;
Soccer my dream and reality.

Soccer I learn the rights;
Soccer I confess the fouls;

[...] Read more

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Patrick White

Your Face Among Many, A Blossom

Your face among many, a blossom.
Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
The sun can't understand why it can't
open the buds of the parking meters.
Some people worry they don't have talent.
Given a name, who isn't a masterpiece?
A perfect self-portrait of what they're becoming?
Talent, the worst superstition of all.
That lullaby you sing to your voodoo doll
at bedtime, to let her know she's special
when, in fact, she's blind. Talent.
That estranged mix of an eclipse and an oilslick
that isn't sure of its standing in life.
Sensible shoes wishing they had wings on their heels.
The redundant navigator of mountain streams
that would have found their own way to the river
all by themselves. You ask if I think you have talent.
To me that's like a flower asking
if I think it will ever come to bloom,
a star wondering if it's shining or not,
a sea uncertain of its own waves and weather.
And I say, your eyes do, your ears do, your mouth has,
these birch-trees, those starlings, that tree, those rocks,
these rags of last year's flowers do, but not you.
On the day of creation when God exhausted herself
using up the leftovers of her inspiration
so as not to let anything go to waste, she pinched the noses
of a few sacred clowns and instead of
breathing life into their lungs, she opened their throats
and poured a special esoteric elixir of talent,
the mother of all oceanic love potions
that ever played favourites with a select few
among everyone she'd ever given birth to,
out of her mouth into theirs, such that like her
all they had to do, they were so talented,
was give the word. Say be. And it was.
Because the moment you ask if you have something,
you've already lost it. Like space or time or mind,
talent isn't possessed. It's made manifest spontaneously.
Do you see the ruby throated hummingbirds
in a last duel with the thorns
of the locust trees in blossom,
one drawing blood, the other, first honey?
Behind every river making its way to the sea
stands the cornerstone of a mountain
buried under an avalanche
it brought down upon itself
like the winter solstice
between the dolmens of Stonehenge,
just as every dropp of water is a lost key,

[...] Read more

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Epistle to an Orphan after William Mackworth Praed A Letter of Advice

They tell me you're promised a mother,
to cuddle, to cosset, to care.
Take care for she may try to smother,
to cover her inner despair.
The experts agree that another
could just as well clinch the affair, -
and beware that you never discover
the father who's no longer there.


(Parody William Mackworth PRAED - A Letter 31 October 1990)


A Letter to PH from a Disappointed Writer

Dear PH, I leave you this letter
after writing from ten until nine
for a site I'd delight to know better,
for a smile that my heart can't decline.
Yet one finds after wearily pacing,
for replies in the cold, for some sign,
that that heart which with hope had been racing
to darkest despair must incline.

Dear PH from twelve to eleven
each night I would knock at your door
in hope that an angel from heaven
could show me the light, - but no more
will I screed in my need if no answer
effective can echo joy's store -
I can't act as a puppet-stringed dancer,
not even for one I adore!

Dear PH the time have I waited
day in and day out by grief torn,
all write up down written, ill-fated
as my consonants vowed my vowels scorn.
The wonder my dunderhead brought you
tonight may steal thunder at morn,
but the blossoms whose beauty besought you
fade as fast as last season's drenched corn.

As on Thursday applauseless, defeated,
so on Friday all clauseless I'm spurned,
is the cycle of love thus completed,
is this all the thanks that I've earned?
It is hard for a fool to be taken -
its a sign that one's soft in the head, -
but the reason that slept must awaken,
and the spirit, restored, won't be lead!

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I Don't Care Anymore

Well you can tell ev'ryone I'm a down disgrace
So drag my name all over the place.
I don't care anymore. (I don't care)
You can tell ev'rybody 'bout the state I'm in
You won't catch me crying 'cos I just can't win.
I don't care anymore I don't care anymore
I don't care what you say
I don't play the same games you play.
'Cos I've been talking to the people that you call your friends
And it seems to me there's a means to and end.
They don't care anymore. (they don't care)
And as for me I can sit here and bide my time
I got nothing to lose if I speak my mind.
I don't care anymore I don't care no more
I don't care what you say
We never played by the same rules anyway.
I won't be there anymore
Get out of my way
Let me by
I got better things to do with my time
I don't care anymore I don't care anymore
I don't care anymore I don't care anymore
Well, I don't care now what you say (I don't care what you say)
'Cos ev'ry day (everyday)
I'm feeling fine with myself (I'm feeling fine with myself)
And I don't care now what you say (I don't care what you say)
Hey I'll do alright by myself (I'll be alright by myself)
I don't care (I don't care) anymore (anymore)
I don't care (I don't care) anymore (anymore)
I don't care (I don't care) anymore (anymore)
I don't care anymore
Do you care? Hell no!
Do you care? Hell no!
Do you care? Hell no!
What what?
Do you care? Hell no!
Do you care? Hell no!
Do you care? Hell no!
What what?
Do you care? Hell no!
Do you care? Hell no!
Do you care? Hell no!
What what?
Do you care? Hell no!
Do you care? Hell no!
Do you care? Hell no!
What what?
'Cos I remember all the times I tried so hard
And you laughed in my face 'cos ya held all the cards.
I don't care anymore.

[...] Read more

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Smart Woman

Smart woman (in a real short skirt)
By: jimmy buffett, marshall chapman
1988
This song is about being in my 40's in the 80's. it seems i'm learing more than i'm forgetting.
-- spoken:
"so i told her, ooh you got money of your own? well, that gives me the urge to merge."
Bimbo limbo is where i've been
I know you know that it's wearing me thin
The times are changing, and it's about time
I'm rearrangin' all the guilt in my mind
Chorus:
I'm looking for a smart woman in a real short skirt
Smart woman who knows how to flirt
Smart woman got a mind of her own
Smart woman that'll take me home
Take me home
I'm not your macho kind of guy
But i can be so when i'm feeling shy
Hey, baby, where'd you get your good looks
Ooh, babe, i want to carry your books
Chorus:
I'm looking for a smart woman in a real short skirt
Smart woman who knows how to flirt
Smart woman got a mind of her own
Smart woman that'll take me home
Take me home
Beauty and brains (beauty and brains)
Best of both worlds (best of both worlds)
Think i can change (think i can change)
If you'll be my, be my, be my girl
Chorus:
I'm looking for a smart woman in a real short skirt
Smart woman who knows how to flirt
Smart woman got a mind of her own
Smart woman that'll take me home
Take me home
Chorus:
I'm looking for a smart woman in a real short skirt
Smart woman who knows how to flirt
Smart woman got a mind of her own
Smart woman better take me home
Take me home

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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

[...] Read more

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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

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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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I Ain't Got Time Anymore

Got no time to stop to speak to friends passing by
Got no strength to wipe away the tears from my eyes
I don't care what's going on
Only know she's gone
The sun don't shine anymore
And I don't feel fine anymore
She ain't mine anymore
No, I don't feel fine anymore
I Ain't got time anymore
Seems to be such sadness in each place I go
The people laugh and still I just wouldn't know
Never stop to see who's there
Once I used to care
But the sun don't shine anymore
I don't feel fine anymore
She ain't mine anymore
No, I don't feel fine anymore
I Ain't got time anymore
I can't get use to being left on my own
It takes up all the time just trying to be alone
Used to take an interest in the state of affairs
Now I only know how much I'm missing that girl
Hope the world will understand
I can't lend a hand
Cause she ain't mine anymore
I don't feel fine anymore
She ain't mine anymore
No, I don't feel fine anymore
Ain't got time anymore
She ain't mine anymore
I don't feel fine anymore
Ain't got time anymore
She ain't mine anymore
No, I don't feel fine anymore

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Be Good Johnny

Skip de skip, up the road
Off to school we go
Dont you be a bad boy johnny
Dont you slip up
Or play the fool
Oh no ma, oh no da,
Ill be your golden boy
I will obey evry golden rule
Get told by the teacher
Not to day-dream
Told by my mother:
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good be good (johnny)
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good (johnny)
Be good be good.
Are you going to play football this year, john?
No!
Oh, well you must be going to play cricket this year then,
Are you johnny?
No! no! no!
Boy, you sure are a funny kid, johnny, but I like you! so tell me,
What kind of a boy are you, john?
I only like dreaming
All the day long
Where no one is screaming
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good be good (johnny)
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Johnny!

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As A Matter Of Fact

Written by s. garrett & d. boyette
Blow daddy, aww, yeah
Here we are, standing at the hard line
We made it last this long
The two of us, together since the first time
And I believe our love is still strong
Seems love has a funny way
Well, it can come or go or it can choose to stay
But love says what it has to say
(chorus)
Matter of fact (ooh, as a matter of fact)
I love you (oh, as a matter of fact)
And I love that you love me back
As a matter of fact (ooh, as a matter, a matter)
Some said we wouldnt make it this far
But they dont talk no more (no more)
The love we share is precious as a big star
And what we haves what others hope for
Seems love has a funny way
Well, it can come or go or it can choose to stay
But love says what it has to say
(chorus)
Matter of fact (ooh, as a matter of fact)
I need you (oh, as a matter of fact)
And Im glad that you need me back
As a matter of fact (ooh, as a matter, a matter)
Mm, matter of fact, yeah (ooh as a matter of fact)
I want you (yeah, as a matter of fact)
And I cant tell you more than that
As a matter of fact, (ooh, as a matter) yeah (matter)
Aww, blow, daddy
Musical interlude
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Seems love has a funny way
Well, it can come and go or it can choose to stay
But love says what it has to say
(repeat chorus)
Matter of fact (ooh, as a matter of fact)
I love you (oh, as a matter of fact)
Yeah and I love that you love me back
As a matter of fact (ooh, as a matter of fact)
Ooh, ooh, baby
Matter of fact (ooh, as a matter of fact)
I need you (yeah, as a matter of fact)
And Im glad that you need me right back
As a matter of fact
(ooh, as a matter) yeah (a matter)

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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,—

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Is Nothing Sacred

If a love as strong as ours
Couldnt make it all the way,
Can anything make sense at all?
If a love so deep and true
Couldnt stand the test of time,
Then mount everest could slide,
And jeruselem could fall.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye
Is nothing sacred anymore?
I can hear the final words
Every sentence that was said
Dont know what turned our lives around.
It doesnt matter who was right,
Theres no justice in a dream.
Never thought a heart could break
Without making any sound.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye
If we can say good-bye
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Our love was as certain as the dawn,
As solid and save as any love could be.
Our love was the star you wished upon,
And you thought that I saved you,
Couldve sworn that you saved me.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,

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The Talented Man

Dear Alice! you'll laugh when you know it, --
Last week, at the Duchess's ball,
I danced with the clever new poet, --
You've heard of him, -- Tully St. Paul.
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;
I wish you had seen Lady Anne!
It really was very romantic,
He is such a talanted man!

He came up from Brazenose College,
Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge
Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,
As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
I'm sure he's a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful; --
Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,
The stories not always quite true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious
May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer, -- good gracious!
Chez nous -- in a talented man.

He sneers, -- how my Alice would scold him! --
At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed -- only think! -- when I told him
How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion;
I broke all the sticks of my fan;
But sentiment's quite out of fashion,
It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt -- which is silly -- to quarrel,
And fond -- which is sad -- of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager's malice; --
She does hate a talented man!

He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
Is all that these eyes can adore;
He's lame, -- but Lord Byron was lame, love,
And dumpy, -- but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice, -- such a voice! my sweet creature,

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Saga Of Dandy, The Devil & Day

[kool keith]
Why don't y'all play that pitch
The right manage gonna be in the game
[moe love]
It's the top of the ninth
Josh gibson is at the plate
The bases are loaded, it's a three and two count
And here's the pitch
[kool keith]
Steppin up to the plate, first batter
[moe love]
Kool keith
[kool keith]
Black baseball, it was a known fact jack
With the weather so hot, who could play like danny day
The greatest and the best, like the satchel brother paige
Long tom and little bomb, in the hall of fame
Like josh and bunt, be alert, duck
Everybody was down for beer and peanuts
Foxes in their sunday's best, their brightest dress
[moe love]
And on deck, ced g
[ced g]
Now baseball today troop, is mostly not racial
But back in the days it was all segregated
The whites had the majors and then the blacks had the negro leagues
They both had great talent but then us blacks have no history
Of all our great players, the teams in the ballpark
But we're here to shed light, restore the glory they haven't got
Black baseball, they paved the way
With players like dandy, the devil, and day
(repeat 3x)
Black baseball
[moe love]
Bring er home
[ced g]
Now the ballparks they played in was very far from a stadium
They only sat hundreds troops as opposed to the thousands
But the stands they was packed, for the league that was fat
With teams like the baccarats and the homestead grays
The eagles and many more, came ready to play
In cities like birmingham, newark and chi-town
The bus trips were very long, paychecks would bring a frown
But not to these players, cause they really loved baseball
You could ban them from majors, but not from the game
With players like leon day, who pitched almost every day
His arm would hold up, blowin hitters with smoke away
And then there was bullet joe, also was smokey joe
King richard and savateen, and brothers like ed pole
Next, batter up!

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Good Love

Everytime I get to see you
I get this feelin
Its so fuzzy inside
And as soon as I walk away from you
Im still tasting your kiss
Saving it in my mind
Its not everyday I find
A guy that makes me smile all the time
Not the way that you do
All the guys I thought I used to love
Compared to you they dont match up
They got nothing on you
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
Baby you got somethin special
That has me thinking of settling down
Youre the one my mama told me
Would sooner or later one day finally come around
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
You bring me joy
And you bring me much pleasure
I could never see myself leaving you ever
Your soft touch is good and it cant get no better
You have got my mind so caught up
Im drunk off of your good love
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love

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III. The Other Half-Rome

Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!

There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk

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