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I tell ya, I could have got some more jobs if I'd tried, but I went to Sweden instead.

quote by Lee Hazlewood
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I Could Make A Living Out Of Lovin You

If theres something that needs fixing
Im the man to see
Look me up, Im listed
Just check under b
If youre ever on the spot
Well, Im good with my hands
24-7 Im your handyman
Odd jobs, hard jobs, anything under the sun
Big jobs, small jobs, baby
Chorus:
Id be a rich man, its true
If I could make a living out of lovin you
These two hands know what to do
If I could make a living out of lovin you
I could make a living out of lovin you
Until the work is finished
Well, I dont get paid
I dont mind getting dirty
Thats my middle name
Im in the service business
So I understand
Call me 24-7, Im your handyman
Odd jobs, hard jobs, anything under the sun
Big jobs, small jobs, baby
Chorus:
Id be a rich man, its true
If I could make a living out of lovin you
These two hands know what to do
If I could make a living out of lovin you
If I could make a living out of lovin you
Solo
Tough jobs, rough jobs, say where and when
Ill leave you my card, call when you need me again
Odd jobs, hard jobs, baby
Chorus:
Id be a rich man, its true
If I could make a living out of lovin you
These two hands know what to do
If I could make a living out of lovin you
Id be a rich man, its true
I could make a living out of lovin you
Im a rich man
I could make a living out of lovin you

song performed by Bon Jovi
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If I Could Make A Living Out Of Loving You

If theres something that needs fixing
Im the man to see
Look me up, Im listed
Just check under b
If youre ever on the spot
Well, Im good with my hands
24-7 Im your handyman
Odd jobs, hard jobs, anything under the sun
Big jobs, small jobs, baby
Chorus:
Id be a rich man, its true
If I could make a living out of lovin you
These two hands know what to do
If I could make a living out of lovin you
I could make a living out of lovin you
Until the work is finished
Well, I dont get paid
I dont mind getting dirty
Thats my middle name
Im in the service business
So I understand
Call me 24-7, Im your handyman
Odd jobs, hard jobs, anything under the sun
Big jobs, small jobs, baby
Chorus:
Id be a rich man, its true
If I could make a living out of lovin you
These two hands know what to do
If I could make a living out of lovin you
If I could make a living out of lovin you
Solo
Tough jobs, rough jobs, say where and when
Ill leave you my card, call when you need me again
Odd jobs, hard jobs, baby
Chorus:
Id be a rich man, its true
If I could make a living out of lovin you
These two hands know what to do
If I could make a living out of lovin you
Id be a rich man, its true
I could make a living out of lovin you
Im a rich man
I could make a living out of lovin you

song performed by Bon Jovi
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Sobre Horizontes

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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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The King of the Vasse

A LEGEND OF THE BUSH.

MY tale which I have brought is of a time
Ere that fair Southern land was stained with crime,
Brought thitherward in reeking ships and cast
Like blight upon the coast, or like a blast
From angry levin on a fair young tree,
That stands thenceforth a piteous sight to see.
So lives this land to-day beneath the sun,—
A weltering plague-spot, where the hot tears run,
And hearts to ashes turn, and souls are dried
Like empty kilns where hopes have parched and died.
Woe's cloak is round her,—she the fairest shore
In all the Southern Ocean o'er and o'er.
Poor Cinderella! she must bide her woe,
Because an elder sister wills it so.
Ah! could that sister see the future day
When her own wealth and strength are shorn away,
A.nd she, lone mother then, puts forth her hand
To rest on kindred blood in that far land;
Could she but see that kin deny her claim
Because of nothing owing her but shame,—
Then might she learn 'tis building but to fall,
If carted rubble be the basement-wall.

But this my tale, if tale it be, begins
Before the young land saw the old land's sins
Sail up the orient ocean, like a cloud
Far-blown, and widening as it neared,—a shroud
Fate-sent to wrap the bier of all things pure,
And mark the leper-land while stains endure.
In the far days, the few who sought the West
Were men all guileless, in adventurous quest
Of lands to feed their flocks and raise their grain,
And help them live their lives with less of pain
Than crowded Europe lets her children know.
From their old homesteads did they seaward go,
As if in Nature's order men must flee
As flow the streams,—from inlands to the sea.

In that far time, from out a Northern land,
With home-ties severed, went a numerous band
Of men and wives and children, white-haired folk:
Whose humble hope of rest at home had broke,
As year was piled on year, and still their toil
Had wrung poor fee from -Sweden's rugged soil.
One day there gathered from the neighboring steads,
In Jacob Eibsen's, five strong household heads,—
Five men large-limbed and sinewed, Jacob's sons,

[...] Read more

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Allegany Camp

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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Answer From Norway To The Speeches In The Swedish House Of Nobles, 1860

Have you heard what says the Swede now,
Young Norwegian man?
Have you seen what forms proceed now,
Border-watch to plan?
Shades of those from life departed,
Our forefathers single-hearted,
Who, when words like these were said,
Mounted guard and knew no dread.

Says the Swede now: That our cherished
Norseland's banner red,
That which flew when Magnus perished,
As to-day outspread,
Which o'er Fredrikshald victorious
And o'er Adler waved all glorious,
That the Swedish yellow-blue
Must in shame henceforth eschew.

Says the Swede now: Lost their luster
Have our memories,
Brighter honors shall we muster,
If we borrow his.
Bids us forth to Lützen stumble,
Close this straw-thatched cottage humble,
Drag our grandsire's ancient seat
To the Swedes for honor meet.

Let it stand, that poor old lumber,
To us dear for aye;
Sweden's ground it could but cumber,
And it might not pay.
For, we know from history's pages,
Some sat there in former ages,
Sverre Priest and other men,
Who may wish to come again.

Says the Swede now: We must know it,

He
our freedom gave,
But the Swedish sword can mow it,
Send it to its grave.
Yet the case is not alarming,
He must fare with good fore-arming,
For in truth some fell of yore,
There where he would break a door.

Says the Swede now: We a clever
Little boy remain,
Very suitable to ever

[...] Read more

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The Pure Norwegian Flag

I
Tri-colored flag, and pure,
Thou art our hard-fought cause secure;
Thor's hammer-mark of might
Thou bearest blue in Christian white,
And all our hearts' red blood
To thee streams its full flood.

Thou liftest us high when life's sternest,
Exultant, thou oceanward turnest;
Thy colors of freedom are earnest
That spirit and body shall never know dearth.-
Fare forth o'er the earth!

II
'The pure flag is but pure folly,'
You 'wise' men maintain for true.
But the flag is the truth poetic,
The folly is found in you.
In poetry upward soaring,
The nation's immortal soul
With hands invisible carries
The flag toward the future goal.
That soul's every toil and trial,
That soul's every triumph sublime,
Are sounding in songs immortal,-
To their music the flag beats time.
We bear it along surrounded
By mem'ry's melodious choir,
By mild and whispering voices,
By will and stormy desire.
It gives not to others guidance,
Can not a Swedish word say;
It never can flaunt allurement:-
Clear the foreign colors away!

III
The sins and deceits of our nation
Possess in the flag no right;
The flag is the high ideal
In honor's immortal light.
The best of our past achievements,
The best of our present prayers,
It takes in its folds from the fathers
And bears to the sons and heirs;
Bears it all pure and artless,
By tokens that tempt us unmarred,
Is for our will's young manhood
Leader as well as guard.

[...] Read more

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The 47% Mitt Romney Calls Welfare Slobs

61% of these 47% percent of Americans that Mitt Romney calls irresponsible and welfare trash work and pay payroll taxes. Many of these 47% are vets, elderly on social security, crippled and hurting people. He doesn't mention soldiers at war during his acceptance speech NOW THIS....24%% of the people voting for the Romney ticket are in this 47% Romney called welfare slobs; they were voting for him but not no more! ! ! ! ! ! I'm sorry the zombies still will. Romney is an outsourcing business man who hid his money in tax shelters around the world. His 47% perspective is just more of his elitist antics. This 47%number has, elderly people on social security, vets and many hurting people. This shows his perspective on social security and medicare way back to the New Deal and President Roosevelt; it shows that he detests entitlement programs for the middle class and poor. He calls them irresponsible and seeing themselves as victims. So condescending, so out of touch....President Obama wants the private sector to lower this statistic of 47% getting government aid by creating jobs. He doesn't want everyone on the government dole but until jobs are created he wants everyone to get a fair shake at the American Dream not just the rich. The republicans and tea party resist any creation of jobs so they don't give him any credit or help. They paint him as a big government socialist because he uses the government to help the people, all of the people. Romney is a 1% representative and disdains a huge portion of the American people. These fat cats outsourced the jobs and now so many industrial jobs are in China with cheap labor and no environmental standards by people like Mitt Romney and Bain Capital. They hide their money in tax shelters then use that same money for lobbyists and use the right wing Supreme Courts ruling on Citizens United calling a corporation a person with first amendment rights so they can pour money into elections without disclosure. Mitt Romney represents this movement of the power of money not freedom. They even define rape or tried to as they bring their sexist elitist perspective into play....we must resist these new rich elites and power hungry shills

poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Jobs?

Jobs?
They don't want jobs.
Not the ones they exclaim,
Can make a down payment...
On credited fantasies.
And they want to be able to pay for them.
They want money.
And lots of it.
They are above pushing a broom.
They've been spoiled by 'entitlements'.

That's why those who created those jobs,
Found a cheaper way to produce their products...
Now being made overseas.
With more sweating they get,
From grateful and pleasant employees.
Not discussing their retirement plans,
Or increments of expected raises.

Those employers wanting to survive,
Have prioritized their needs as well.
With a paying of those interested in creating quality...
And not those more involved,
In discussing where they vacation...
During a two hour lunch break.
While complaining what the boss makes...
Or who shops where for a price making eyes pop.
As they within eight hours do exactly what they please.
To leave a job before it is time...
Completing nothing that is due.

Jobs?
They had jobs.
And complained 'aliens' were taking them away.
When blacks began getting tips waiting on tables,
It was soon discovered how they were no longer qualified,
To do menial work.
Since 'some' folks began to realize,
Those menial positions could become very lucrative.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I love Sweden. The entire world should be like Sweden. They all like to drink and get naked, and the women are hot. I can't think of a better nation on the planet.

quote by Drew Curtis
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It goes way, way back when we were under Sweden's rule. We always think they are better than us. We played against them so often for so many years. Every country has one opponent they want to beat and for us, it's Sweden.

quote by Saku Koivu
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Sweden is the home of my ancestors, and I have reserved a special place in my heart for Sweden.

quote by Carl D. Anderson
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There was a Young Lady of Sweden,
Who went by the slow rain to Weedon;
When they cried, 'Weedon Station!'
She made no observation
But thought she should go back to Sweden.

limerick by Edward Lear
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Mostly Slavonic

I.—
Peter Michaelov

It was Peter the Barbarian put an apron in his bag
And rolled up the honoured bundle that Australians call a swag;
And he tramped from Darkest Russia, that it might be dark no more,
Dreaming of a port, and shipping, as no monarch dreamed before.
Of a home, and education, and of children staunch and true,
Like my father in the fifties—and his name was Peter, too.
(He could build a ship—or fiddle, out of wood, or bark, or hide—.
Sail one round the world and play the other one at eventide.)

Russia’s Peter (not my father) went to Holland in disguise,
Where he laboured as a shipwright underneath those gloomy skies;
Later on he went to England (which the Kaiser now—condemns)
Where he studied as a ship-smith by old Deptford on the Thames—
And no doubt he knew the rope-walk—(and the rope’s end too, he knew)—
Learned to build a ship and sail it—learned the business through and through.
And I’d like to say my father mastered navigation too.
(He was born across in Norway, educated fairly well,
And he grafted in a ship-yard by the Port of Arundel.)

“Peter Michaelov” (not Larsen) his work was by no means done;
For he learned to make a ploughshare, and he learned to make a gun.
Russian soldiers must have clothing, so he laboured at the looms,
And he studied, after hours, building forts and building booms.
He would talk with all and sundry, merchants and adventurers—
Whaling men from Nova Scotia, and with ancient mariners.
Studied military systems (of which Austria’s was the best).
Hospitals and even bedlams—class distinctions and the rest.

There was nothing he neglected that was useful to be known—
And he even studied Wowsers, who had no creed of his own.
And, lest all that he accomplished should as miracles appear,
It must always be remembered he’d a secret Fund for Beer.
When he tramped to toil and exile he was only twenty-five,
With a greater, grander object than had any man alive.
And perhaps the lad was bullied, and was sad for all we know—
Though it isn’t very likely that he’d take a second blow.
He had brains amongst the brainless, and, what that thing means I knew,
For before I found my kingdom, I had slaved in workshops too.

But they never dreamed, the brainless, boors that used to sneer and scoff,
That the dreamy lad beside them—known as “Dutchy Mickyloff”—
Was a genius and a poet, and a Man—no matter which—
Was the Czar of all the Russias!—Peter Michaelovich.

Sweden struck ere he was ready—filled the land with blood and tears—
But he broke the power of Sweden though it took him nine long years.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Jim Thorpe

Born in May of Eighteen eighty-eight
Though the birth record is obscure
In Oklahoma, in a one room cabin
With brother Charlie, of that we're sure.

His father, Hiram, was a farmer
Mother, Mary James, a Pottawatomie
Descendant of the Chief, Black Hawk
A Warrior with an athletic history.

His Indian name of Wa-Tho-Huk
Translated meaning of “Bright Path”
As his future really seemed to be
Before the typical white man's wrath.

His twin brother passed away at nine
Then in the year, Nineteen, ought four
He attended the Carlisle Indian School
Where he learned football, track, and more.

Trained by legend, Glenn “Pop” Warner
Who had the unique insight to see
The young phenomenon evolving
Into, the great athlete, he would be.

All-American in Nineteen 0-nine
And soon, on the Olympic Team
Sailing across the sea to Sweden
The answer to many-a-youngster's dream.

He trained on board on the journey
And he must have done it very well
For he blew away his competitors
That's what, long lasting records tell.

In the Pentathlon and Decathlon
He won a Gold Medal in each
And it seemed any goal he went for
For him, would be an easy reach.

Gustav, the King of Sweden said it best
After the Nineteen twelve Olympics
“Sir, you are the greatest athlete in the world.”
After witnessing, Thorpe's sporting epics.

And, not one to stand on ceremony
That sometimes, great success can bring
He answered, honestly and simply
As they shook hands, and said, “Thanks, King.”

[...] Read more

poem by Abe Jones
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State Of The Union

President Obama,
your firm resolve
very admirable...
you preach your dream
for America with
light in your eyes...
you drew your line
in the sand...

but we your people
are still hurting...
we cannot feed our children
on dreams alone..
we need the body
to follow the heart.

bringing the soldiers home,
finally, keep them home!
should have been done
long ago!

jobs, jobs, jobs,
we need jobs...
fair pay with benefits.
fair taxation...
and yes, tax the rich!

all Americans, all colors
and creeds, must walk together,
hand in hand, for the future,
ours, and our childrens'.

the hand of the oil companies,
and the big banks,
needs to be removed!
justice the same for all,
both rich and poor

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Back To Greed

What's the problem?
Why is there a commotion in the streets?
We have created millions of jobs.
And half of the people weren't qualified,
To fulfill the positions.
And yet they have their jobs!
And people are working.
What's going on?
What is the protesting about?

'Well...
The people are disgruntled,
Because...
Well,
The have an issue with 'pay'! '

What issue?

'They want to get 'paid'.
They want pay for what they do.'

You can't satisfy these people!
First it was jobs.
That's all they screamed about.
Well,
They've got their jobs.
Now you say they want pay?

'Yes.'

What next will they be demanding?
FOOD?
Then what?
SHELTER?
What kind of operation they think we run here?
A 'social service agency'?
You tell them to go back to work.
Because they certainly will 'not' be going back to greed.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dreams On Lay-Away

As soon as we eliminate the wars.
To enable us to restore our economic prosperity...
I will guarantee all of you,
Jobs to afford the realization of your dreams.

'Wasn't it just last week,
That same guy proposed an increase...
Of troops and weapons until we all witnessed,
A bonafide and unquestionable victory? '

~Hey...
That's the same guy who opposes,
What the other guy has been saying all along.~

'Who are we to believe? '

~Well...
Anyone who has previously stated,
That the automobile industry should go bankrupt.
And then promises to create 12 million jobs within 4 years,
If elected to lead with his vision of prosperity...
Is counting on an effective fantasy to feed,
Every mind he can still find attached...
To a recycling of their delusions.~

'And what does he exactly mean by saying...
'Jobs To Afford The Realization Of Your Dreams? ''

~That depends.
Does a 'realization' of dreams,
Put into 'reality' an effectiveness that is realized?
I know folks already with jobs,
Who can not put their dreams on lay-away.
Even if they tried to save.~

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Thousand Poems

yeah yeah, nothing for you to boast about –
‘100 good ones would be quite enough…
no, make that 20 – who’s got time for more,
even if they were masterpieces…’

So perhaps, merely a little quiet satisfaction
in a personal kinda way: I guess
retirement years hang heavily for some,
recalling days of authority, command;
others find them richer, busier than ever; or
do just the same jobs as they did so well, except
they don’t get paid for it…

or you can put all your ego in one basket –
try to do the one thing well; after a life
of unfinished jobs and hasty jobs,
and jobs you dreamed of and yet never did…

or, there’s poetry: if speech is actually the Word
that set the cosmos on its merry way, that
sings the praise of gods or human enterprise, or
draws attention to the sunlight on a wall;
melts the heart; reveals, relates
the physical and the metaphysical;
raises the spirits, lights the mind… then,
poetry’s no bad thing
to sieve, to pour a lifetime into;

and if, as the statistics state,
400 of those 1,000 poems get a reading, averaging
two people each, around the world and every day –
then perhaps, a little quiet pride, a hope
that something useful has been tried
in these last years on earth…

a small gift to the fleeting soul,
the ferryman’s so solemn toll
to help it on its way; a fee
to offer; if that were, shall be,
what’s appropriate..

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Fleetwood

We were once a thriving town
envied by ports from miles around
plenty of fish and jobs for all
and then the pride before the fall
the fish are gone, the jobs are few
the town no longer what we knew
yobs with drugs, no jobs or hope
just endless puffing on their dope
older people afraid to pass by
who saw the good times and wonder why
i hope my children fly this town
and find somewhere nice to settle down
a place where maybe dreams come true
with jobs, and hope and a future too.

poem by Michelle Garner
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