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So I'm going to tell you, it's going to be a good year. There are good players all over this country, and it is our job as a scouting department to find them, draft them, sign them, develop them, and help us to continue to win championships. So it's going to be a good year.

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3rd November

Of a very special injection into my body,
Of the ways of life to survive on this struggle!
For the pain is still in me.
Of a very special injection into my body,
Of the ways of life to survive this pain;
But i will be okay very soon my love.
In this life, the thing for you never lost;
But sometimes, they are really lost forever!

I am like Chief Dishon on this pain and,
3rd November will be remembered;
Because, every country is not easy to live in nowadays.
There are ups and downs and all sort of stories,
There are all types of struggles and pains too;
And where i do live now is full of stories as well.

You can be very rich anywhere on this earth,
For even the pooorest lands still do have rich people within;
And the 3rd of November will be remembered always.
Man has its own land of success but,
I hope that this injection will lead me to Mount Zion!
Oh Zion, come closer to me and lead me on;
For there are still stories all over this place of mine.

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You People Are All Over The Place

Am I gay?
Is that something to be today?
If it is...
Sign me up.

'Suppose it isn't? '

Well 'supposing',
You find something else...
To do with your time.
If you don't mind,
I find eye to eye contact...
More significant,
Than what you are doing.
Lift them.
Up here,
You people are all over the place.

'And what do you mean by that? '

You people.
You people with your eyes!
They're all over the place.
Stay focused.

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I Am Not Going To Tell You The Name Of The City

I am not going to tell you the name of the city
in which my steps are still searching for me.

I am not going to tell you the name of the city
whose bridges are longer than life.

I am not going to tell you the name of the city
under whom even the sky was like a tent.

I am not going to tell you the name of the city
in which I learned to start up a new journey as soon as I arrive.

I am not going to tell you the name of the city
which is never to grow old.

I am not going to tell you the name of the city
in which I met the eyes with the color of the sky.

I am not going to tell you the name of the city
in which I was knocking on my own doors from inside.

I am not going to tell you the name of the city
which was a cage far too small for my wings.

Vida Nenadic

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Let Me Tell You About Her

I wasn't very indiscreet and yet
That is a notion that I might as well forget
Friends look at me these days with fond surprise
But when I start to speak they roll their eyes
Let me tell you about her
Hush now, I've said too much
There's something indescribable I can't quite catch
Let me tell you about her
The way that she makes me feel
Then draw a curtain on this scene I shan't reveal
Some things are too personal
Too intimate to spill
And gentlemen don't speak of them
And this one never will
I wasn't very conversational
Accept to say that, "You're sensational"
Friends now regard me with indulgent smiles
But when I start to sing they run for miles
Let me tell you about her
Hush now, I've said too much
There's something indescribable I can't quite catch
Let me tell you about her
The way that she makes me feel
Then draw a curtain on this scene I shan't reveal

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Did I tell you that our view of happiness is a little bit boring too?

A girl all white on Sunday
With her papa and mama
And after mass
She gets her pink cotton candy
Sugar to her tongue

And then they go to a
Halo-halo bar and they
Eat their slice of chiffon cake
Sugar to the tongues of
A very sweet family

Happy childhood, normal people
Achieving and making others happy
Expectedly, kindhearted and
Not miserable, away from despair
And poverty, looking forward to
A bright future, full of laughter
And cheers

That is how we view happiness
Giggles in the youthful years
And marriage and children
And grandchildren
The cycle of perfection

Did I tell you that life gets boring
Sometimes with the way we are
Prescribed to be this and this and that?

I give up, and learn life my way
Preferring solitude, away from the mob
The crowd and the doctors of happiness
I want to find mine: in peace, In silence
In the most private moment

Even without you.

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Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Greeting Poem

There was a sound in the wind to-day,
Like a joyous cymbal ringing!
And the leaves of the trees talked with the breeze,
And they altogether were singing,
For they knew that an army, both bold and strong,
A brave, brave army, was coming,
Not with the fife and sounds of strife,
With marshal music and drumming,
Not with stern faces and gleaming swords,
That would make blood to flow like water,
While brother and brother should slay each other
On wholesale fields of slaughter;
But rather like rills from a thousand hills,
That ripple through valley and heather,
On, on to the sea, with a song of glee,
Till they meet and mingle together.

They come from the South, and the East, and the West,
The bravest and best in the nation.
They come at no idle and aimless quest,
But to work for a world's salvation.
From the Scot's fair land and from England's strand,
O'er mountain and heather and ocean,
They come; and the foe by their coming shall know
The strength of a Templar's devotion.
On the earnest brows, in the thoughtful eyes,
We read the unchanging story-
They fight in their might for the truth and the right,
And not for vain name or glory.
O grandest of armies! O bravest of bands!
We give you a cordial greeting,
And the blood of our warm hearts beats in the hands
That are offered to you in meeting.
The heart of a Templar is never cold,
Nor stands it aloof from a brother,
And his hand is steady, and always ready
To clasp the hand of another.
In God's great Book, where but angels look,
On pages of spotless beauty
Are written in letters of living light
A Templar's vow and his duty.
'For ever and ever,' the promise reads,
For ever and ever 'twas given.
And who keeps or breaks the pledge that he takes
Must meet the record in heaven.

Our order is noble and grand and strong,
And is gathering strength each hour,
And the good of the earth proclaim its worth,
While the foe turns pale at its power.
And we of the State that men call great,
The nation's brave 'Badger' daughter,
Step by step as we go, are defeating the foe,
While we add to the hosts of cold water.

With a chief at our head whom the foe may well dread,
The Sherman or Grant of our battles,
By day and by night we fight the good fight,
Though never a cannon rattles.
For the tongue and the pen are the swords of our men,
And prayer keeps them whetted and polished;
They will let God's light in on the foe's licensed sin,
Till the traffic of death is abolished.

With cunning hands we fashioned the strands
Of a stout restraining tether,
To fasten the beast, for a season at least,
And our statesmen tied it together.
The beast strains the rope with the idle hope
Of making it weaker or longer,
But the Templars to-day are working away
To make it shorter and stronger.

We give you greeting-we need your aid!
There is work for many a morrow,
There are beautiful souls going down in the bowls,
There are homes that are burdened with sorrow,
There are mourning captives all over the earth,
Hugging the fetters that bind them.
We must show them the light, we must set them aright,
We must work for them all as we find them.

With a soaring 'Faith,' that is stronger than death,
We must work while the day hangs o'er us.
We are brave and strong, and our battle-song
Has 'Hope' for the ringing chorus.
With 'Charity' broad as the mercy of God,
We must lift up the fallen neighbor,
And the Lord's dear band, in the angel land,
Will smile on our blesséd labor.

Welcome, brave warriors in God's holy cause!
The hearts in our bosoms are beating
As one heart to-night, filled with pride and delight-
Welcome, thrice welcome, our greeting.
And though soon between will lie long miles of green,
Though oceans divide us for ever,
The ties which now bind heart with heart, mind with mind,
The hand of Death only can sever.

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Patrick White

I Have Grown

I have grown significantly to understand that every throne I've ever sat upon was quicksand and that I am living leniently on the match-head of a planet waiting for the thumbnail of the moon to ignite it with one quick flick of a crescent. Equine and apocalyptic as hell, and the irony is, more than possibly accurate. I'm running out of doors where I can billet my assassins; I keep giving my heart to women who reject it like a bloodbank without an overdraft. I'm a diffraction pattern in the twilight zone, in media res, between this world and the next, and that's not the one where the herders and the hunters are having it out in a range war of religions. Like a page torn out of the multiverse, I'm just a zone of local cooling, a sunspot, and my neighbour is another, though we know we're both just fooling when we call each other brother. Forty-eight years a poet and a painter, intoxicated by the picture-music threading the fog of the sirens like a theme I couldn't resist. Foolish, I suppose, not to have tied myself off like a lifeboat and rowed and rowed for years just to stay where I am, but I had to jettison my landing gear to achieve cruising altitude in the oxymoronic abyss that the sirens demanded, saying, live this, if your poetry isn't just the romantic bloodletting of a rose from a vein that you've slashed on the moon, prove you're not a lie to us, and conduct yourself like a terrorist, prepared, are you prepared? -to die for us. I cut the eyes out of an eclipse and wore it over my face like a ski-mask, and walked around in the busy market, weighing the world like a tomato in my hand, the original primordial atom, packed with explosives, ready to detonate on command, to delet and improve the world by splashing myself against the wall like a bucket of paint and see what I could make out of myself in the mess of the ensuing vision. It's amazing how suggestive a real siren can be when you're lying in an ambulance without any legs. So I learned to swim like a fish among the stars; the last archon of an extinct species from Mars, evicted when all the water went south, and I had to come up with a completely new medium, new atmosphere, new idiom, out of myself, ingeniously, given what I had to work with. I adapted to the solitude and silence of my own vast spaces within, and vowed like a candle, to root my flower in the dark like lightning. Now there's a squad car outside the candy-store and a swan that barks like a god. Make of it what you will. The pebble doesn't enquire after its ripples. I write without feedback, without telltale bubbles of meaning rising to the surface like survivors who want to crawl back up on land and start it all again. There's not much point in panning for gold in an asteroid belt when the only way to tell one nugget from the next is to break your teeth biting into them like fortune-cookies enshrining the haloes and the horns of the prophetic comets that dash by like bunting on a campaign tour. Elect me your fate, and I promise to find a place for your day old reflection somewhere on the plate, and a way to flag the fools down for easier detection. But I won't tweak your mountainous erection like a gunshot when there are avalanche warnings all along the road, and the echoes return, born again, rehearsing their own names like fleeing refugees on a rosary of boulders that were left overs from Soddam and Gomorrah. Better to write this way than to lie buried like the last laugh of a kingly line in the barrow of a dunghill, pleading like a seed for an upgraded resurrection. I may well be the last extant defect of a fallible perfection, and all the mistakes of the bruised morning glory are mine, and the snakey tines of these tendrils of blood get tangled up in the twine of my thought and no one knows how they got in nor how to get out, and the homologous combs of the mentally coiffed are useless against the love knots that have coiled into nooses around the neck of the wind that's run out of excuses for inciting the spring to riot, but at least I don't snitch my way through a poem like a hydrophobic divining rod rooting out the terrorist wells of the watershed in order to secure some heartland in the back pastures of God. It's dangerous wherever I am. And flawed.

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Hermann And Dorothea - V. Polyhymnia


BUT the Three, as before, were still sitting and talking together,
With the landlord, the worthy divine, and also the druggist,
And the conversation still concern'd the same subject,
Which in every form they had long been discussing together.
Full of noble thoughts, the excellent pastor continued
'I can't contradict you. I know 'tis the duty of mortals
Ever to strive for improvement; and, as we may see, they strive also
Ever for that which is higher, at least what is new they seek after,
But don't hurry too fast! For combined with these feelings, kind Nature
Also has given us pleasure in dwelling on that which is ancient,
And in clinging to that to which we have long been accustom'd.
Each situation is good that's accordant to nature and reason.
Many things man desires, and yet he has need of but little;
For but short are the days, and confined is the lot of a mortal.
I can never blame the man who, active and restless,
Hurries along, and explores each corner of earth and the ocean
Boldly and carefully, while he rejoices at seeing the profits
Which round him and his family gather themselves in abundance.
But I also duly esteem the peaceable burgher,
Who with silent steps his paternal inheritance paces,
And watches over the earth, the seasons carefully noting.
'Tis not every year that he finds his property alter'd;
Newly-planted trees cannot stretch out their arms tow'rds the heavens
All in a moment, adorn'd with beautiful buds in abundance.
No, a man has need of patience, he also has need of
Pure unruffled tranquil thoughts and an intellect honest;
For to the nourishing earth few seeds at a time he entrusteth,
Few are the creatures he keeps at a time, with a view to their breeding,
For what is Useful alone remains the first thought of his lifetime.
Happy the man to whom Nature a mind thus attuned may have given!
'Tis by him that we all are fed. And happy the townsman
Of the small town who unites the vocations of town and of country.
He is exempt from the pressure by which the poor farmer is worried,
Is not perplex'd by the citizens' cares and soaring ambition,
Who, with limited means,--especially women and maidens,--
Think of nothing but aping the ways of the great and the wealthy,
You should therefore bless your son's disposition so peaceful,
And the like-minded wife whom we soon may expect him to marry.

Thus he spoke. At that moment the mother and son stood before them.
By the hand she led him and placed him in front of her husband
'Father,' she said, 'how often have we, when talking together,
Thought of that joyful day in the future, when Hermann, selecting
After long waiting his bride at length would make us both happy!
All kinds of projects we form'd. designing first one, then another
Girl as his wife, as we talk'd in the manner that parents delight in.
Now the day has arrived; and now has his bride been conducted
Hither and shown him by Heaven; his heart at length has decided.
Were we not always saying that he should choose for himself, and
Were you not lately wishing that he might feel for a maiden
Warm and heart-felt emotions? And now has arrived the right moment!
Yes, he has felt and has chosen, and like a man has decided.
That fair maiden it is, the Stranger whom he encounter'd.
Give her him; else he'll remain--he has sworn it--unmarried for ever.'

And the son added himself:--'My father, O give her! My heart has
Chosen purely and truly: she'll make you an excellent daughter.'

But the father was silent. Then suddenly rose the good pastor,
And address'd him as follows:--' One single moment's decisive
Both of the life of a man, and of the whole of his Future.
After lengthen'd reflection, each resolution made by him
Is but the work of a moment; the prudent alone seize the right one.
Nothing more dangerous is, in making a choice, than revolving
First this point and then that, and so confusing the feelings.
Pure is Hermann's mind; from his youth I have known him; he never,
Even in boyhood, was wont to extend his hand hither and thither.
What he desired, was suitable to him; he held to it firmly.
Be not astonish'd and scared, because there appears on a sudden
What you so long have desired. 'Tis true the appearance at present
Bears not the shape of the wish, as you in your mind had conceived it.
For our wishes conceal the thing that we wish for; our gifts too
Come from above upon us, each clad in its own proper figure.
Do not now mistake the maiden who has succeeded
First in touching the heart of your good wise son, whom you love so.
Happy is he who is able to clasp the hand of his first love,
And whose dearest wish is not doom'd to pine in his bosom!
Yes, I can see by his face, already his fate is decided;
True affection converts the youth to a man in a moment.
He little changeable is; I fear me, if this you deny him,
All the fairest years of his life will be changed into sorrow.'

Then in prudent fashion the druggist, who long had been wanting
His opinion to give, rejoin'd in the following manner
'This is Just a case when the middle course is the wisest!
'Hasten slowly,' you know, was the motto of Caesar Augustus.
I am always ready to be of use to my neighbours,
And to turn to their profit what little wits I can boast of.
Youth especially needs the guidance of those who are older.
Let me then depart; I fain would prove her, that maiden,
And will examine the people 'mongst whom she lives, and who know her.
I am not soon deceived; I know how to rate their opinions.'

Then forthwith replied the son, with eagerness speaking:--
'Do so, neighbour, and go, make your inquiries. However,
I should greatly prefer that our friend, the pastor, went with you;
Two such excellent men are witnesses none can find fault with.
O, my father! the maiden no vagabond is, I assure you,
No mere adventurer, wand'ring about all over the country,
And deceiving the inexperienced youths with her cunning;
No! the harsh destiny link'd with this war, so destructive of all things,
Which is destroying the world, and already has wholly uprooted
Many a time-honour'd fabric, has driven the poor thing to exile.
Are not brave men of noble birth now wand'ring in mis'ry?
Princes are fleeing disguised, and monarchs in banishment living.
Ah, and she also herself, the best of her sisters, is driven
Out of her native land; but her own misfortunes forgetting,
Others she seeks to console, and, though helpless, is also most helpful.
Great are the woes and distress which over the earth's face are brooding,
But may happiness not be evoked from out of this sorrow?
May not I, in the arms of my bride, the wife I have chosen,
Even rejoice at the war, as you at the great conflagration?'

Then replied the father, and open'd his mouth with importance:--
'Strangely indeed, my son, has your tongue been suddenly loosen'd,
Which for years has stuck in your mouth, and moved there but rarely
I to-day must experience that which threatens each father:
How the ardent will of a son a too-gentle mother
Willingly favours, whilst each neighbour is ready to back him,
Only provided it be at the cost of a father or husband!
But what use would it be to resist so many together?
For I see that defiance and tears will otherwise greet me.
Go and prove her, and in God's name then hasten to bring her
Home as my daughter; if not, he must think no more of the maiden.'

Thus spake the father. The son exclaim'd with jubilant gesture
'Ere the ev'ning arrives, you shall have the dearest of daughters,
Such as the man desires whose bosom is govern'd by prudence
And I venture to think the good creature is fortunate also.
Yes, she will ever be grateful that I her father and mother
Have restored her in you, as sensible children would wish it.
But I will loiter no longer; I'll straightway harness the horses,
And conduct our friends on the traces of her whom I love so,
Leave the men to themselves and their own intuitive wisdom,
And be guided alone by their decision--I swear it,--
And not see the maiden again, until she my own is.'
Then he left the house; meanwhile the others were eagerly
Settling many a point, and the weighty matter debating.

Hermann sped to the stable forthwith, where the spirited stallions
Tranquilly stood and with eagerness swallow'd the pure oats before them,
And the well-dried hay, which was cut from the best of their meadows.
Then in eager haste in their mouths the shining bits placed he,
Quickly drew the harness through the well-plated buckles,
And then fastend the long broad reins in proper position,
Led the horses out in the yard, where already the carriage,
Easily moved along by its pole, had been push'd by the servant.
Then they restrain'd the impetuous strength of the fast-moving horses,
Fastening both with neat-looking ropes to the bar of the carriage.
Hermann seized his whip, took his seat, and drove to the gateway.
When in the roomy carriage his friends had taken their places,
Swiftly he drove away, and left the pavement behind them,
Left behind the walls of the town and the clean-looking towers,
Thus sped Hermann along, till he reach'd the familiar highway,
Not delaying a moment, and galloping uphill and downhill.
When however at length the village steeple descried he,
And not far away lay the houses surrounded by gardens,
He began to think it was time to hold in the horses.

By the time-honour'd gloom of noble lime-trees o'er shadow'd,
Which for many a century past on the spot had been rooted,
Stood there a green and spreading grass-plot in front of the village,
Cover'd with turf, for the peasants and neighbouring townsmen a playground.
Scooped out under the trees, to no great depth, stood a fountain.
On descending the steps, some benches of stone might be seen there,
Ranged all around the spring, which ceaselessly well'd forth its waters,
Cleanly, enclosed by a low wall all round, and convenient to draw from.
Hermann then determined beneath the shadow his horses
With the carriage to stop. He did so, and spoke then as follows
'Now, my friends, get down, and go by yourselves to discover
Whether the maiden is worthy to have the hand which I offer.
I am convinced that she is; and you'll bring me no new or strange story:
Had I to manage alone, I would straightway go off to the village,
And in few words should my fate by the charming creature be settled.

Her you will easily recognize 'mongst all the rest of the people,
For her appearance is altogether unlike that of others.
But I will now describe the modest dress she is wearing:--
First a bodice red her well-arch'd bosom upraises,
Prettily tied, while black are the stays fitting closely around her.
Then the seams of the ruff she has carefully plaited and folded,
Which with modest grace, her chin so round is encircling.
Free and joyously rises her head with its elegant oval,
Strongly round bodkins of silver her back-hair is many times twisted
Her blue well-plaited gown begins from under her bodice.
And as she walks envelopes her well-turn'd ankles completely.
But I have one thing to say, and this must expressly entreat you:
Do not speak to the maiden, and let not your scheme be discover'd.
But inquire of others, and hearken to all that they tell you,
When you have learnt enough to satisfy father and mother,
Then return to me straight, and we'll settle future proceedings.
This is the plan which I have matured, while driving you hither.'

Thus he spoke, and the friends forthwith went on to the village,
Where, in gardens and barns and houses, the multitude crowded;
All along the broad road the numberless carts were collected,
Men were feeding the lowing cattle and feeding the horses.
Women on every hedge the linen were carefully drying,
Whilst the children in glee were splashing about in the streamlet.
Forcing their way through the waggons, and past the men and the cattle,
Walk'd the ambassador spies, looking well to the righthand and lefthand,
Hoping somewhere to see the form of the well-described maiden;
But wherever they look'd, no trace of the girl they discover'd.

Presently denser became the crowd. Round some of the waggons.
Men in a passion were quarrelling, women also were screaming.
Then of a sudden approach'd an aged man with firm footstep
Marching straight up to the fighters; and forthwith was hush'd the contention,
When he bade them be still, and with fatherly earnestness threaten'd.
'Are we not yet,' he exclaim'd, 'by misfortune so knitted together,
As to have learnt at length the art of reciprocal patience
And toleration, though each cannot measure the actions of others?
Prosperous men indeed may quarrel! Will sorrow not teach you
How no longer as formerly you should quarrel with brethren?
Each should give way to each other, when treading the soil of the stranger,
And, as you hope for mercy yourselves, you should share your possessions.'

Thus the man address'd them, and all were silent. In peaceful
Humour the reconciled men look'd after their cattle and waggons.
When the pastor heard the man discourse in this fashion,
And the foreign magistrate's peaceful nature discovered,
He approach'd him in turn, and used this significant language
'Truly, Father, when nations are living in days of good fortune,
Drawing their food from the earth, which gladly opens its treasures,
And its wish'd-for gifts each year and each month is renewing,
Then all matters go smoothly; each thinks himself far the wisest,
And the best, and so they exist by the side of each other,
And the most sensible man no better than others is reckon'd
For the world moves on, as if by itself and in silence.
But when distress unsettles our usual manner of living,
Pulls down each time-honour'd fabric, and roots up the seed in our gardens,
Drives the man and his wife far away from the home they delight in,
Hurries them off in confusion through days and nights full of anguish,
Ah! then look we around in search of the man who is wisest,
And no longer in vain he utters his words full of wisdom.
Tell me whether you be these fugitives' magistrate, Father,
Over whose minds you appear to possess such an influence soothing?
Aye, to-day I could deem you one of the leaders of old time,
Who through wastes and through deserts conducted the wandering people;
I could imagine 'twas Joshua I am addressing, or Moses.'

Then with solemn looks the magistrate answer'd as follows
'Truly the present times resemble the strangest of old times,
Which are preserved in the pages of history, sacred or common.
He in these days who has lived to-day and yesterday only,
Many a year has lived, events so crowd on each other.
When I reflect back a little, a grey old age I could fancy
On my head to be lying, and yet my strength is still active.
Yes, we people in truth may liken ourselves to those others
Unto whom in a fiery bush appear'd, in a solemn
Moment, the Lord our God; in fire and clouds we behold him.'

When the pastor would fain continue to speak on this subject,
And was anxious to learn the fate of the man and his party,
Quickly into his ear his companion secretly whisper'd
'Speak for a time with the magistrate, turning your talk on the maiden,
Whilst I wander about, endeav'ring to find her. Directly
I am successful, I'll join you again.' Then nodded the pastor,
And the spy went to seek her, in barns and through hedges and gardens.

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Many Teachers All Over The World

I write to teach you,
I write to lead you,
I write to guide you,
I write to tell you what i have for you;
But, there are many teachers all over the world!
However, my sweet muse of different from all of them.

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Shall I Tell You A Story?

Shall I tell you a story about a mouse
That lived in the wall of a very old house?
He dined on scraps that fell from the table
And dodged the cat whenever he was able.

Shall I tell you a story about a cat
Who sat by the fire, on a lovely warm mat?
He'd prowl the house with a haughty strut,
But would stay out of range of the yapping mutt!

Shall I tell you a story about a pup,
Who next to his master's feet would curl up?
A more faithful friend you never will see.
His name 'True Blue' fits him to a tee!

Shall I tell you a story about a man
Who muddles along the best that he can,
With his dog, and his cat, and even the mouse?
Contented, they stay in that ramshackle house.

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You Stole My Bell

There is a place
Underneath the staircase
Where I keep the evidence
Of what once would offer peace
In a deep blue velvet box filled with joy and pride
Should I pick the locks?
Should I peek inside?
Can I stand the sight of those happy days?
Should I strike a match, burn them all away?
Cos you stole my bell
And you broke my chime
And the clock spins round but it won't keep time
There are many lovely girls in this cold and loveless world
But not one is the equal of you, heaven knows how much I love you (x2)
So here we are
But it's not quite like we thought
Those things were priceless then
Now I know they can't be bought
In a deep blue velvet box fastened with a pin
Should I lift the lid?
Should I look within?
Was it my last chance or my first mistake?
Is it just a step that we'll never take?
Cos you stole my bell
And you broke my chime
And the clock spins round but it won't keep time
There are many lovely girls in this cold and loveless world
But not one is the equal of you, heaven knows how much I love you (x3)

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Liza Minnelli

Audiences are the same all over the world, and if you entertain them, they'll respond.

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There are thousands of Ten Commandments plaques or monuments all over the country, and lawsuits to remove them have popped up in more than a dozen states.

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You know, there are not only - all of the networks, and I mean every television news operation and print and radio and magazines, newspapers, all of them, are remiss in the diversity area. I mean, none of these organizations have reached a level of parity.

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Quick of Lip and Short of Thought

Destroyed by appearances.
And values on the surface...
That have no depth.
A quality of life has been sacrificed.
Devisive measures have assisted the blight.
There are still those bickering over racists insights.
And their ignorance has expedited conflicts biting...
Further into poisons to bring them all demise!
Since the foundation that supports their allegations,
Is in need of desperate repair...
And has cracked with wounds!
Leaving hatred and bitterness,
To sink their luxurious ship!
Exposing themselves...
To be quick of lip and short of thought!
And agreeably their own worse enemy.
Nourished on 'mad cow' and polluted pretense...
That justifies this nonsense,
With an applied nonstop ignorance!
That seems more and more a way of life accepted.

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The Work Verse

Ive been slavin my mind just to try to find a way out
And its been on my brain just to put the blame on you
Ive gotta find a way just to make my day a useful one
Cause Im a front row ticket to a nothin show
Ive got one free pass just to let me know
Hey babe its a stagnant time
But it takes more than that to hang my coat and hat and sleep
Ive gotta sweat once more till my bones feel sore
I tell you why
Cause Im a front row ticket to a nothin show
Ive gotta crash this prison and not let go
My hearts on a sun cloud screamin for progress
cause I want work
Ill keep slavin my mind just to try to find some kind of light
Im gonna burn this damn ticket and think of tomorrow
And I wont live this long life in stagnation no more
My hearts on a sun cloud screamin for progress
Cause Im a man
And mans gotta work

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William Cowper

To The Rev. Mr. Newton, Rector Of St. Mary Woolnoth

Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, 'I can't understand
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face,
That you are in fashion all over the land,
And I am so much fallen into disgrace.

'Do but see what a pretty contemplative air
I give to the company,—pray do but note 'em,—
You would think that the wise men of Greece were all there,
Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men of Gotham.

'My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses,
While you are a nuisance where'er you appear;
There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of noses,
Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear.'

Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way,
And opening his mouth with a smile quite engaging.
The Box in reply was heard plainly to say,
'What a silly dispute is this we are Waging!

'If you have a little of merit to claim,
You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed;
And I, if I seem to deserve any blame,
The before-mentioned drug in apology plead.

'Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own,
No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus;
We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,
But of anything else they may choose to put in us.'

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20th Century

Farms are burned down to the ground
and cattle slaughter just there in the fields,
while a super power forces women and children
into concentration camps to kill them there.

Railway tracks run crisscross over the country
and galloping horses and oxen pulling wagons
are replaced by roaring cars, lorries
and motorbikes
and people follow technology
as if its the new god.

When the stock exchange folds
people jump from the windows of buildings,
while they are out of their wits,
as if they have got wings.

Germans march past
and thousands in crowds
are giving a sigh heil salute

and in a peculiar way stay ignorant
about millions of Jews that are robbed
and killed,
as if they did not exist.

Bombers let bombs dropp like rain
on Britain and rockets
hit London almost unstoppable

and in the icy Russian winter
the Germans are reminded that they are humans
and from Stalingrad they are driven back

until the Russians claim some of Berlin
and half of Germany
as their domain
and almost every women there gets raped

and America drops the bomb on Hiroshima
and another time on Nagasaki
and their enemies are molten, burned and radiated

and after this war jets cross the skies,
rockets go to the moon
where man stands like a god.

Its the age were young boys
are shot into peaces in Vietnam, in Namibia
and Angola are sent to war,
where people loose respect for God
and try to solve everything with science,
where man becomes godly in his own eyes

and I wonder what the almighty God
thinks about this
while man is turn the earth to ruins
and are filling the cup
of the wrath of God?

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A girl of beauty, always a smile on her and the ones she touched
Full of love and grace and the will to learn,
Nothing could stand in her way!
Or so she thought…
This girl of beauty was neglected
By the one who was suppose to love her unconditionally
He abandoned her and she never knew why
Her tears flowed down stinging her disfigured body and soul
This girl of beauty has a STD
And she doesn’t know
But shit can’t anybody see

Looking in the mirror that’s not her
It was the father she longed for, reached for
But that is all he was a reflection…
In her mind she thought there are ways
Ways to fill this void and once again smile
This girl of beauty has a STD
And she doesn’t know
But shit can’t anybody see?

Her body became her weakness as it was molested and tainted
They would fill her for that moment
until they too where gone
This girl of beauty has a STD
And she doesn’t know
But shit can’t anybody see

She always found a replacement
And she would give all she’s got
But he always wanted more
She felt she had to prove or he too shall be gone
So that’s what she did let him hit it raw
Chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis…what beautiful flowers he gave her
This girl of beauty she has an STD
And she doesn’t know
But shit can’t anybody see

White powdered nose, bright coloured pills
These became her escape
These became her friends
Out at the club with her new friends
She’d once again aim to please
Who ever it was never said no
Just promised her flowers like all others before
This girl of beauty has a STD
And she doesn’t know it
But shit can’t anybody see

She was blessed with child but rejected her gift
Her nose stayed powdered and she popped those coloured pills
This girl of beauty has a std
And she doesn’t know
But shit can’t you see

Never knew where she slept or why her body bled
But no one reached out to find truly what’s wrong
She never knew and she never cared
When he came he promised to stay this might be him
…the father she’d lost
So she gave him her body but he shredded it to pieces
And left her lying naked
But on her chest he laid his flower
This girl of beauty has a STD
And she doesn’t know
But shit can’t anybody see

Her jewel flowed red as she staggered in pain
As a part of her was ripped from her womb
Where is the other half?
With him? or him, maybe him
Shit she’ll never know
This girl of beauty has a STD
But she don’t know
But shit can’t anybody see

In her hand she held her bouquet
Carried it with pride
But it bared all her shame
By day her bouquet grew big
They gave her all kinds of flowerers
Which to her look enchanting
But these flowerers smell of shame, disgust and disappointment
But how can she tell wit her nose powdered white
This girl of beauty has a STD
And she doesn’t know
But shit can’t anybody see

Now she doesn’t care for love
Him, him, and defiantly him
She’s found a dark place to put all this pain
A place she knows no one will dare enter
Her body so ripped
Her heart no beat
Nothing is left but all of his pain
She cries…cries
From deep down and asks for some peace
This girl with her STD
Soul Tattered and Dead
And she now knows but it is way too late
This girl of beauty now has
Alone In Dead Souls
And in her mind there she is free…

But shit you still don’t see
Or you, you and defiantly you.

Lerato Ladyfair Shuping
October 11,2007

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Patrick White

Wait. Wait. Wait For It To Come

Wait. Wait. Wait for it to come,
the mad folly of my creative destruction.
Bleak the flowers in this ruinous garden
and my psyche speaking in tongues
like gates someone left open banging in the wind.
Bring on the storm. Uproot the lightning.
I will not run. I'll stand here steadfast
as an amputated stump in this open field
with a ghostly feeling I can grow my arms back
like a faith healer sitting like Stonehenge
in solstitial silence at the last broken window
snarling at the fixed stars that keep drifting
in and out of the asylum like a seance of fireflies
that's turned into an angry mob
looking for stars to martyr for not taking
their fanatical starmaps as literally as they do.
I'm an heretical astrologer tied to the axis mundi
of my own imagination. I read my doom,
cowled in candlelight like the skull of the full moon
scrying the entrails of a wounded bull
garlanded in laurels like a loveletter to the gods.

My end without exit. My beginning without a door.
My backbone bent like a rafter from shouldering
this dance floor that's crippled me for life.
Should I paint my skin blue? Should I get a tattoo?
Should I carve a more fashionable deathmask
out of my heartwood and learn to lie like a man
acquainted with the truth? Should I go into battle naked
like a beserker sporting his own vulnerability
in the face of an enemy outraged by the insult?
I'm beating on a pinata of killer bees.
I'm cauterizing my nerves with the synaptic
welder's arcs of the stars until I'm numb as an alloy
of water and blood at the point of a sword
that's about to cut my throat like a ouija board
that's run out of answers and alibis for everything.

I'm jester to the divine sense of humour
of a moody goddess trying to decide if she's a crone
or a nymph. Too late for autumn. Too early for spring.
She falls through the cracks of time
like an old age pensioner. She is the muse
that takes the new moon from under my tongue
and throws it like a penny into a wishing well.
Good luck. I'm done. I've worn my bones out
like dice in a gambling den long enough.
Seven come eleven or snake-eyes,
it's all come around like Russian roulette to me.

I'm dissipating my intensity in the supernal immensities
that don't give a damn whether I exist or not.
The hurricane's out of the aviary. The singing-master's
dropped out of the choir of crows of the black mass
in the ashes of the infidels cherishing the leftover relics
in the sacred shrines of their fire pits, surrounded
by the boundary stones of their spiritual opulence.
I'm tired of mistaking a faithless face in a broken mirror
as an ultimate insight into life. There's nothing orthodox
about a labyrinth of cul de sacs. Nothing infernal
about a scapegoat driven out into the wilderness
by the sins of the tribe to graze on burning bushes.

I've read the gnostic allegory of my life
to loose-lipped interpreters in burning libraries
all over this country from one coast to the next
without being hexed like a nightbird
by their symbolic superstitions. And I've listened
for vital signs of life in neglected cemeteries
where no one's making love on the graves
to tempt the silence out of hiding its genius
like a birthmark under the headstone
of a prophetic paperweight with no voice of its own
to speak of were the wind not a shepherd of leaves
looking for greener pastures for its lost sheep.

I've done it right. Nothing less than everything
all the time. I've kept it all together like a night sky
that goes on forever like a crow with an eye
to the shining. I fletched my eyebeams like arrows
with the feathers of ospreys to bring down the stars
like messenger pigeons of the light with rumours of home.
I've broken the seal of my blood, like a scab on the moon,
or the immaculate sunspot of my word, to liberate
the mystic singularities at the bottom of a black hole
that promised them a better life on the other side
and hung a lantern in the tunnel of an oncoming thought train
that knew it could, knew it could, knew it could,
but didn't. What more could you ask, what
moeity of my life hasn't been devoted to the absurdity
of conducting sky burials in an orbiting observatory?

I've sung for my supper, sex, money, fame and meaning.
I've raised my voice like an axe on behalf
of people on the receiving end of the stick
and I've brought my winged heels down hard
on the skulls of slack snakes on railway tracks
when it became clear as an X-ray to me
they weren't fledgling dragons and the babies
were as toxic as the adults. Retreads on black asphalt,
most of their books, shedding their skins
as if they were laying rubber on well published roads
lined with critical road kill. Everybody underestimating
the monstrosity of a mythically inflated ego
with the mass of a black dwarf that's imploded
on itself like the withered daylily of a weather balloon.
Imagine the rapture of frogs in the rain
blissed out on the highbeams that will crush them
like chocolates with strawberry hearts.
And everybody grieves like a sieve
for the mystic mishaps of the lesser vehicle
But poetry isn't a joy ride for petty thieves,
and there are dangerous hitch-hikers, thumbs up
on the backwoods highways at night out in the starfields
poaching the horns of unicorns to sell on a black market
that doesn't believe one miracle's ever enough.

I may have been eclipsed by my own enlightenment,
but I can still shine. I radiate. I emanate. Every meteor's
got its radiant. And there are always stars in a poet's eyes
he hasn't got around to naming yet like diamonds in the rough.
My life might ring as hollow as an empty silo,
and yet I'm fulfilled. I'm ripe as the red end
of the spectrum, a windfall in the Hesperides,
all flavours of the lifesavers in the sunset.
My fear hasn't aged. My grief. My love. My imagination.
Strange recollections from dissonant hours,
I regret having mismanaged the retroactive exorcism,
of my childhood, but things get better the less they matter.
Even a shipwreck on the moon has oceanic powers
over the way the waters of life ride out the storm.
I take liberties with chaos and risk more than I have to lose,
bracing for the fall with an incommunicable form of the blues
that reconciles me to the unattainable by revealing
what's most human about me isn't a still life with apple piety,
not what I excelled at, but the bruise I achieved when I fell.

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