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Manfred von Richthofen

It is better that one's customers come to one's shop than to have to look for them abroad.

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The Video Shop

The local factorys been pulled down
By an overseas corporation
Now all of my brothers are looking around
For alternative occupation
I was sitting by the telly with my brother, kenny
When suddenly the penny dropped
While all of my brothers are sitting at home
Ive got a bank loan and Ive opened up my very own
Video shop
Video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
Comedy and tragedy are all sitting on my shelf
And if youve got a fantasy
For a small rental fee
You can set yourself free
At my video shop
At my video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
At the video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
From all of the depression in you head
Caused by all the living in the red
Ive got a bootleg version of citizen kane
A second hand copy of psycho
Ive taped them off the telly so you shouldnt complain
And theres no guarantee youll get your money back again
From my video shop
My video shop
If you want to escape, I can rent you a tape
To relieve your situation
If you feel a bit low, I got a good peep show
cos everybody knows almost anything goes
At my video shop
At my video shop
One fifty a day and Ill fly, fly you away
Its nothing to pay to fly far, far away
I can help you through that lonely night
Ive got technicolour, black and white
I can guide you through those empty days
Make you smile and take your blues away
O let me fly you away
At my video shop
Fly, fly you away
Another factorys been knocked down
But nobody ever complains
And all of my brothers are customers now
We all play video games
I can see it in the eyes of all the lonely wives

[...] Read more

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Shop, she shops!

Once she constantly smiled
Bought cloths and jewelry that gave her style

Shop, shop, shop
She shopped till she dropped
Shop, shop, shop
She just could not seem to stop

Her credit was on top
Her spending way rocket up
She paid with cash or credit card
This Lady was absolutely shopping mad
Shoping malls!
Markets stalls!
Shoes, clothing, and handbags she bought all year long
Spend, spend and spend daily was her beloved song

Shop, shop, shop
She now shops like a flop
Shop, shop, shop
This lady has now put a stop

Today is different shopping expedition
This time spending with supervision
No more that crazy spending addiction

Her credit card is cut
Her goods seized, the whole lot
Today she spends, her pockets hurt!

She has become street wise
Haggling with each price
She has become precise
About what she needs and not what is nice

Shop, shop, shop
She shops like a flop
Shop, shop, shop
Her spending has taken a big drop!
This lady has now put a stop to shop!

Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

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Shop

So, friend, your shop was all your house!
Its front, astonishing the street,
Invited view from man and mouse
To what diversity of treat
Behind its glass—the single sheet!

What gimcracks, genuine Japanese:
Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog;
Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese;
Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog:
Queer names, too, such a catalogue!

I thought, "And he who owns the wealth
Which blocks the window's vastitude,
—Ah, could I peep at him by stealth
Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude
On house itself, what scenes were viewed!

"If wide and showy thus the shop,
What must the habitation prove?
The true house with no name a-top—
The mansion, distant one remove,
Once get him off his traffic-groove!

"Pictures he likes, or books perhaps;
And as for buying most and best,
Commend me to these City chaps!
Or else he's social, takes his rest
On Sundays, with a Lord for guest.

"Some suburb-palace, parked about
And gated grandly, built last year:
The four-mile walk to keep off gout;
Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer—
But then he takes the rail, that's clear.

"Or, stop! I wager, taste selects
Some out o' the way, some all-unknown
Retreat: the neighborhood suspects
Little that he who rambles lone
Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne!"

Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence
Fit to receive and entertain,—
Nor Hampstead villa's kind defence
From noise and crowd, from dust and drain,—
Nor country-box was soul's domain!

Nowise! At back of all that spread
Of merchandize, woe's me, I find

[...] Read more

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S-e-x-x-y

Dressed only in clothes
From her head to her toes
This is the way
The talking part goes
S-e-x-x-y
More than enough
Around the clock with nobody else
S-e-x-x-y
There she is
Standing on the bed
Cookie in one hand, wig on her head
S-e-x-x-y
X because its extra baby
Y because its extra baby
Unnoticed by few
Very very few
And that includes you
Look inside your mind
Look inside your eye
Secret agent spy, come to see why
S-e-x-x-y
One finger nail
Across your back
Babys first gold tooth initials inscribed
S-e-x-x-y
X because its extra baby
Y because its extra baby
You gotta understand
She wants to be your man
Shes got another plan
Notes
The infamous warren rigg microwave remix goes as follows:
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y s-e-x-x-y
S-e-x-x-y s-e-x-x-y

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The Lettuce And Burger Address.....[LONG; Humor; Capitalism]

Four months and seven days ago me an' my brother Joe here
brought to 'yas' a new diner with both sugar AND Equal, and
catsup for all.
Our competition (ha ha) cut prices to pressure us, but we countered with a new menu.....and topless waitresses.
There have been some skirmishes as some 'a' 'ya', our customers know.
But Joe and me are diner veterans and 'in for a penny, in for a pound', as Mom used to say.

Remember not all diners, meaning businesses, are created equal to US, but all diners, meaning people, ARE equal to US, and we plan 'ta' come out on top.
Many 'a' 'yas' been good and loyal customers for weeks, and
Joe and me got our Grand Opening Week, comin' Sunday through Saturday.
As always we got free medium sodas and coffee, one per customer.
And for those with five holes me or Joe punched in your loyalty cards,
you each receive a free dessert 'wit' purchase of any entrée (17 dollars or more) .
How 'da ya' like that folks? Pretty swell, huh?

Tuesday and We'nesday we got live music, Jazz Tuesday and Blue Grass We'nesday.
In the future we might get live music all the time; free for loyal customers; three bucks a head for them without cards. Nice, huh? You betcha!
Remember loyalty cards is always available from our lovely wait staff. Take a LOW bow girls. Nice!

Burgers and hots will still be our featured items on the menu.
We got six kinds 'a' burgers and three kinds 'a' hots.
All them come with fries or onion rings and coleslaw or ‘tato salad;
hot sauce me and Joe got for 'yas' too. Nice, huh?
But Joe and me (we're buddies as well as bro's 'ya' know?) plan 'ta'
expand the choices to please our customers even more. That's you folks.
Fish and chips, cold sandwiches, and chili and takeout are maybe comin'.


We plan a great run here, Joe and me, see, as we continue to serve 'ya', our friends.
We might branch out to other locations as our competitors (ha ha) wise up and go belly up.....'fore they owe too much dough 'ta' ev'ryone.

(That's when they know they can't beat me and my brother here.)

There's been talk ‘bout lawsuits ‘bout our girls' attire (or lack of it) but Joe and me got the city boys in our pockets. (ha ha)
Never forget we love all 'yas', our loyal customers.


And don't forget our new address here: 1200 Oceanside Avenue..this place here.
Tell your people about our great food. Thanks a bunch. Lunch too.
(Nov.2012)

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Take A Look

I don't know what you're after
Wannna know all the details of my disaster
Like an accident on the side of the road
When you're driving past slow but there's nothing to see here
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
I'm some kind of freak now and
You'll never see me the same
What's all the fuss about?
Are you sure you wanna find out?
Cause once you know the truth
You might wish you'd walked away
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
What if I'm not able
To put my cards on the table?
And would it liberate you
If you knew what I knew?
It's been over a year now and
I never saw him again
The facts and the fiction
Collide as the bodies untangle
And the traffic moves on like it did
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look
Wanna take a look, take a look

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Sobre Horizontes

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soccer back pack bags

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Hardware Shop

There's nothing so becomes a man
as a local hardware shop - it expands
the horizons of his home improvement, and
brings harmony to his home life as
those little jobs get done;
and although these days a car-trip
would take you to an out-of-town
with wider variety and lower price,
there is greater delight in detailed chat
with that little man around the corner
who's been there since - oh, you knew his father.
He's got it; or will get it; you chat; come out feeling good;
there's order in the world. Things get done.


But they're a dying breed. We had two - didn't know
just how lucky we were until Mr and Mrs Tidy
(how many Tidy generations of hardware had there been?)
with their two shops run together - he in one, she in the other - and
he identified just what it was you wanted; she
knew just where they kept it - suddenly they went, still sprightly young, to
a well-deserved retirement, after a life of virtue.
They exuded some sort of spiritual strength
between them; as if your purchase had
a hint of allegory in some non-conformist book of life.

Which left the other hardware shop. I hoped
that their departure would encourage his own trade
but it was not to be. The stage set of his shop is perfect -
behind the obligatory front-of-shop basics, put out
each day - camping gas, the bags of dried manure,
plastic bins of every size -
the shop is filled in every nook and cranny, leading to
a further vista of boxed shelves, a hint of aisle on aisle
to joy the DIY-er's heart - and
that faintly oily, metallic, woody, dusty, smell - the precious essence
of a hundred years in that same shop, of visits by
a century of proud home owners, treasuring their addiction..

but this is a man upon whom no tidy destiny, no spiritual path
has fallen. Enter his crammed shop with hope, of the friendly chat
that from the furthest depths, produces just the size
of split boggle ring of finest brass that you were looking for,
and what do you get? Twenty minutes of sad-smiled, patient
explanation of why he hasn't got it; couldn't get it,
because they'd want an order of two dozen. It's only done
in industrial sizes anyway. And the supplier's changed hands
and you'll need to change the whole system to metric.

You should have known - for it was always so:

[...] Read more

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Walk To The Shop

I’m going for a walk
I’m going for a walk to the shop
I’m walking to the shop
I sweat as I walk to the shop
I’m walking to the sweat shop
I’m working at the sweat shop
I work at a sweat shop

I’ll be back in an hour
I’ll be back in hours
I’ll be back in 16 hours
I’ll be back from work in 16 hours
I’ll be back from my 16 hour shift
I work a 16 hour shift

I need to go to the supermarket
I need to go to the supermarket to buy food
I need to buy food
I need to spend my wages on food
I need to spend all of my wages on food
All of my wages is just a few pence
For my wages I only have a few pence
I only get paid a few pence

I’ll be home soon
I’ll be back to my home soon
I’ll be back to my house in this town soon
I’ll be back to my house in this shanty town soon
I’ll be back to my hut in this shanty town soon
I live in this shanty town
I live in a shanty town

I am wearing my pair of Nike running shoes
I have a pair of Nike running shoes
I have lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I am surrounded by lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I make lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I make Nike running shoes
I make your Nike running shoes.

I work in a sweat shop
I work a 16 hour shift
I only get paid a few pence
I live in a shanty town
I make your Nike running shoes

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Temora - Book VIII

ARGUMENT.

The fourth morning from the opening of the poem comes on Fingal, still continuing in the place to which he had retired on the preceding sight, is seen, at intervals, through the mist which covered the rock of Cormul. The descent of the king is described. He orders Gaul, Dermid, and Carril the bard, to go to the valley of China, and conduct from thence the Caledonian army, Ferad-artho, the son of Cairbar, the only person remaining of the family of Conar, the first king of Ireland. The king makes the command of the army, and prepares for battle. Marching towards the enemy, he comes to the cave of Lubar, where the body of Fillan lay. Upon seeing his dog, Bran, who lay at the entrance of the cave, his grief returns. Cathmor arranges the Irish army in order of battle. The appearance of that hero. The general conflict is described. The actions of Fingal and Cathmor. A storm. The total rout of the Fir-bolg. The two kings engage, in a column of mist, on the banks of Lubar, Their attitude and conference after the combat. The death of Cathmor. Fingal resigns the spear of Trenmor to Ossian. The ceremonies observed on that occasion. The spirit of Cathmor, in the mean time, appears to Sul-malla, in the valley of Lona. Her sorrow. Evening comes on. A feast is prepared. The coming of Ferad-artho is announced by the songs of a hundred bards. The poem closes with a speech of Fingal.

As when the wintry winds have seized the waves of the mountain lake, have seized them in stormy night, and clothed them over with ice; white to the hunter's early eye, the billows still seem to roll. He turns his ear to the sound of each unequal ridge. But each is silent, gleaming, strewn with boughs, and tufts of grass, which shake and whistle to the wind, over their gray seats of frost. So silent shone to the morning the ridges of Morven's host, as each warrior looked up from his helmet towards the hill of the king; the cloud-covered hill of Fingal, where he strode in the folds of mist. At times is the hero seen, greatly dim in all his arms. From thought to thought tolled the war, along his mighty soul.

Now is the coming forth of the king. First appeared the sword of Luno; the spear half issuing from a cloud, the shield still dim in mist. But when the stride of the king came abroad, with all his gray dewy locks in the wind; then rose the shouts of his host over every moving tribe. They gathered, gleaming round, with all their echoing shields. So rise the green seas round a spirit, that comes down from the squally wind. The traveller hears the sound afar, and lifts his head over the rock. He looks on the troubled bay, and thinks he dimly sees the form. The waves sport, unwieldy, round, with all their backs of foam.

Far distant stood the son of Morni, Duthno's race, and Cona's bard. We stood far distant; each beneath his tree. We shunned the eyes of the king: we had not conquered in the field. A little stream rolled at my feet: I touched its light wave, with my spear. I touched it with my spear: nor there was the soul of Ossian. It darkly rose, from thought to thought, and sent abroad the sigh.

"Son of Morni," said the king, "Dermid, hunter of roes! why are ye dark, like two rocks, each with its trickling waters? No wrath gathers on Fingal's soul, against the chiefs of men. Ye are my strength in battle; the kindling of my joy in peace. My early voice has been a pleasant gale to your years, when Fillan prepared the bow. The son of Fingal is not here, nor yet the chase of the bounding roes. But why should the breakers of shields stand, darkened, far way?"

Tall they strode towards the king: they saw him turned to Morn's wind. His, tears came down for his blue-eyed son, no slept in the cave of streams. But he brightened before them, and spoke to the broad-shielded kings.

"Crommal, with woody rocks, and misty top, the field of winds, pours forth, to the sight, blue Lubar's streamy roar. Behind it rolls clear-winding Lavath, in the still vale of deer. A cave is dark in a rock; above it strong-winged eagles dwell; broad-headed oaks, before it, sound in Cluna's wind. Within, in his locks of youth, is Ferad-artho, blue-eyed king, the son of broad-shielded Cairbar, from Ullin of the roes. He listens to the voice of Condan, as gray he bends in feeble light. He listens, for his foes dwell in the echoing halls of Temora. He comes, at times, abroad in the skirts of mist, to pierce the bounding roes. When the sun looks on the field, nor by the rock, nor stream, is he! He shuns the race of Bolga, who dwell in his father's hall. Tell him, that Fingal lifts the spear, and that his foes, perhaps, may fail.

"Lift up, O Gaul, the shield before him. Stretch, Dermid, Temora's spear. Be thy voice in his ear, O Carril, with the deeds of his fathers. Lead him to green Moi-lena, to the dusky field of ghosts; for there, I fall forward, in battle, in the folds of war. Before dun night descends, come to high Dunmora's top. Look, from the gray skirts of mist, on Lena of the streams. If there my standard shall float on wind, over Lubar's gleaming stream, then has not Fingal failed in the last of his fields."

Such were his words; nor aught replied the silent striding kings. They looked sidelong on Erin's host, and darkened as they went. Never before had they left the king, in the midst of the stormy field. Behind them, touching at times his harp, the gray-haired Carril moved. He foresaw the fall, of the people, and mournful was the sound! It was like a breeze that comes, by fits, over Lego's reedy lake; when sleep half descends on the hunter, within his mossy cave.

"Why bends the bard of Cona," said Fingal, "over his secret stream? Is this a time for sorrow, father of low-laid Oscar? Be the warriors remembered in peace; when echoing shields are heard no more. Bend, then, in grief, over the flood, where blows the mountain breeze. Let them pass on thy soul, the blue-eyed dwellers of the tomb. But Erin rolls to war; wide tumbling, rough, aid dark. Lift, Ossian, lift the shield. I am alone, my son

As comes the sudden voice of winds to the becalmed ship of Inis-huna, and drives it large, along the deep, dark rider of the wave; so the voice of Fingal sent Ossian, tall along the heath. He lifted high his shining shield, in the dusky wing of war; like the broad, blank moon, in the skirt of a cloud, before the storms. arise.

Loud, from moss-covered Mora, poured down, at once, the broad-winged war. Fingal led his people forth, king of Morven of streams. On high spreads the eagle's wing. His gray hair is poured on his shoulders broad. In thunder are his mighty strides. He often stood, and saw, behind, the wide-gleaming rolling of armor. A rock he seemed, gray over with ice, whose woods are high in wind. Bright streams leapt from its head, and spread their foam on blasts.

Now he came to Lubar's cave, where Fillan darkly slept. Bran still lay on the broken shield: the eagle-wing is strewed by the winds. Bright, from withered furze, looked forth the hero's spear. Then grief stirred the soul of the king, like whirlwinds blackening on a lake. He turned his sudden step, and leaned on his bending spear.

White-breasted Bran came bounding with joy to the known path of Fingal. He came, and looked towards the cave, where the blue-eyed hunter lay, for he was wont to stride, with morning, to the dewy bed of the roe. It was then the tears of the king came down and all his soul was dark. But as the rising wind rolls away the storm of rain, and leaves the white streams to the sun, and high hills with their heads of grass; so the returning war brightened the mind of Fingal. He bounded, on his spear, over Lubar, and struck his echoing shield. His ridgy host bend forward, at once, with all their pointed steel.

Nor Erin heard, with fear, the sound: wide they come rolling along. Dark Malthos, in the wing of war, looks forward from shaggy brows. Next rose that beam of light, Hidalla! then the sidelong-looking gloom of Maronnan. Blue-shielded Clonar lifts the spear: Cormar shakes his bushy locks on the wind. Slowly, from behind a rock, rose the bright form of Atha. First appeared his two-pointed spears, then the half of his burnished shield: like the rising of a nightly meteor, over the valley of ghosts. But when ha shone all abroad, the hosts plunged, at once, into strife. The gleaming waves of steel are poured on either side.

As meet two troubled seas, with the rolling of all their waves, when they feel the wings of contending winds, in the rock-sided firth of Lumon; along the echoing hills in the dim course of ghosts: from the blast fall the torn groves on the deep, amidst the foamy path of whales. So mixed the hosts! Now Fingal; now Cathmor came abroad. The dark tumbling of death is before them: the gleam of broken steel is rolled on their steps, as, loud, the high-bounding kings hewed down the ridge of shields.

Maronnan fell, by Fingal, laid large across a stream. The waters gathered by his side, and leapt gray over his bossy shield. Clonar is pierced by Cathmor; nor yet lay the chief on earth. An oak seized his hair in his fall. His helmet rolled on the ground. By its thong, hung his broad shield; over it wandered his streaming blood. Tla-min shall weep, in the hall, and strike her heaving breast. Nor did Ossian forget the spear, in the wing of his war. He strewed the field with dead. Young Hidallan came. "Soft voice of streamy Clonra! why dost thou lift the steel? O that we met in the strife of song, in thine own rushy vale!" Malthos beheld him low, and darkened as he rushed along. On either side of a stream, we bent in the echoing strife. Heaven comes rolling down; around burst the voices of squally winds. Hills are clothed, at times, in fire. Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist. In darkness shrunk the foe: Morven's warriors stood aghast. Still I bent over the stream, amidst my whistling locks.

Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound of the flying foe. I saw the king, at times, in lightning, darkly striding in his might. I struck my echoing shield, and hung forward on the steps of Alnecma; the foe is rolled before me, like a wreath of smoke.

The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hundred streams of Moi-lena shone. Slow rose the blue columns of mist, against the glittering hill. Where are the mighty kings? Nor by that stream, nor wood, are they! I hear the clang of arms! Their strife is in the bosom of that mist. Such is the contending of spirits in a nightly cloud, when they strive for the wintry wings of winds, and the rolling of the foam-covered waves.

I rushed along. The gray mist rose. Tall, gleaming, they stood at Lubar. Cathmor leaned against a rock. His half-fallen shield received the stream, that leapt from the moss above. Towards him is the stride of Fingal: he saw the hero's blood. His sword fell slowly to his side. He spoke, amidst his darkening joy.

"Yields the race of Borbar-duthul? Or still does he lift the spear? Not unheard is thy name, at Atha, in the green dwelling of strangers. It has come, like the breeze of his desert, to the ear of Fingal. Come o my hill of feasts: the mighty fail, at times. No fire am I to low-laid foes; I rejoice not over the fall of the brave. To close the wound is mine: I have known the herbs of the hills. I seized their fair heads, on high, as they waved by their secret streams. Thou art dark and silent, king of Atha of strangers!"

"By Atha of the stream," he said, "there rises a mossy rock. On its head is the wandering of boughs, within the course of winds. Dark, in its face, is a cave, with its own loud rill. There have I heard the tread of strangers, when they passed to my hall of shells. Joy rose, like a flame, on my soul; I blest the echoing rock. Here be my dwelling, in darkness; in my grassy vale. From this I shall mount the breeze, that pursues my thistle's beard; or look down on blue-winding Atha, from its wandering mist."

"Why speaks the king of the tomb? Ossian, the warrior has failed! Joy meet thy soul, like a stream, Cathmor friend of strangers! My son, I hear the call of years; they take my spear as they pass along. Why does not Fingal, they seem to say, rest within his hall? Dost thou always delight in blood? In the tears of the sad? No; ye dark-rolling years, Fingal delights not in blood. Tears are wintry streams that waste away my soul. But when I lie down to rest, then comes the mighty voice of war. It awakes me in my hall and calls forth all my steel. It shall call it forth no more; Ossian, take thou thy father's spear. Lift it, in battle, when the proud arise.

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Look Who's Dancing

Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Look who's dancing
oh look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Well, first the dance floor
was like a forbidden land
where people would never dare to go
but now everyone's doing it
I said it's a dance galore
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Look who's dancing
oh look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
And some are dancing on their feet
some are jumping off the floor
and look at old Granny "B"
she got the, she caught the, she knows the groove for sure
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now, right around
Look who's dancing
who is dancing
Look who's dancing now, get on the floor
(groove section)
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now, around the world
Look who's dancing
oh look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
And some are dancing on their feet
some are jumping off the floor
and look at old Tauter him
he got the, he got the, he got the, he got the beat for sure
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Look who's dancing
check the dancing
Look who's dancing now, get on the floor
(groove section)
Do the ska, the rock steady, the ridim and blues
and if you catch them, then you do the della move
it nuh mek nuh sense to sit down, when you know you can goove
any type of danve you do, you neither win or lose
And if your choice is reggae, you don't need nuh dancing shoes

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song performed by Ziggy MarleyReport problemRelated quotes
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The Wee Shop

She risked her all, they told me, bravely sinking
The pinched economies of thirty years;
And there the little shop was, meek and shrinking,
The sum of all her dreams and hopes and fears.
Ere it was opened I would see them in it,
The gray-haired dame, the daughter with her crutch;
So fond, so happy, hoarding every minute,
Like artists, for the final tender touch.

The opening day! I'm sure that to their seeming
Was never shop so wonderful as theirs;
With pyramids of jam-jars rubbed to gleaming;
Such vivid cans of peaches, prunes and pears;
And chocolate, and biscuits in glass cases,
And bon-bon bottles, many-hued and bright;
Yet nothing half so radiant as their faces,
Their eyes of hope, excitement and delight.

I entered: how they waited all a-flutter!
How awkwardly they weighed my acid-drops!
And then with all the thanks a tongue could utter
They bowed me from the kindliest of shops.
I'm sure that night their customers they numbered;
Discussed them all in happy, breathless speech;
And though quite worn and weary, ere they slumbered,
Sent heavenward a little prayer for each.

And so I watched with interest redoubled
That little shop, spent in it all I had;
And when I saw it empty I was troubled,
And when I saw them busy I was glad.
And when I dared to ask how things were going,
They told me, with a fine and gallant smile:
"Not badly . . . slow at first . . . There's never knowing . . .
'Twill surely pick up in a little while."

I'd often see them through the winter weather,
Behind the shutters by a light's faint speck,
Poring o'er books, their faces close together,
The lame girl's arm around her mother's neck.
They dressed their windows not one time but twenty,
Each change more pinched, more desperately neat;
Alas! I wondered if behind that plenty
The two who owned it had enough to eat.

Ah, who would dare to sing of tea and coffee?
The sadness of a stock unsold and dead;
The petty tragedy of melting toffee,
The sordid pathos of stale gingerbread.
Ignoble themes! And yet -- those haggard faces!

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Dixie's Land

1 I wish I was in de land ob cotton,
2 Old times dar am not forgotten;
3 Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!
4 In Dixie Land whar I was born in,
5 Early on one frosty mornin,
6 Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!

7 Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
8 In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
9 Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
10 Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

11 Ole missus marry 'Will-de-weaber';
12 Willum was a gay deceaber;
13 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
14 But when he put his arm around her,
15 He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder;
16 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!

17 Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
18 In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
19 Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
20 Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

21 His face was sharp as a butcher's cleaber;
22 But dat did not seem to greab her;
23 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
24 Ole missus acted de foolish part,
25 And died for a man dat broke her heart;
26 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!

27 Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
28 In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
29 Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
30 Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

31 Now here's health to de next ole missus,
32 An' all the gals dat want to kiss us;
33 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!
34 But if you want to drive 'way sorrow,
35 Come and hear dis song tomorrow;
36 Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!

37 Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
38 In Dixie's Land we'll take our stand, to lib an' die in Dixie.
39 Away! away! away down South in Dixie.
40 Away! away! away down south in Dixie.

41 Dar's buckwheat cakes an' Injin batter,
42 Makes you fat or a little fatter;

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Amy Lowell

The Hammers

I

Frindsbury, Kent, 1786

Bang!
Bang!
Tap!
Tap-a-tap! Rap!
All through the lead and silver Winter days,
All through the copper of Autumn hazes.
Tap to the red rising sun,
Tap to the purple setting sun.
Four years pass before the job is done.
Two thousand oak trees grown and felled,
Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald,
Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks
With huge boles
Round which the tape rolls
Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks.
Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir;
Planking from Dantzig.
My! What timber goes into a ship!
Tap! Tap!
Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways,
Tapping, tapping.
You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze.
Through the fog down the reaches of the river,
The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever.
The church-bells chime
Hours and hours,
Dropping days in showers.
Bang! Rap! Tap!
Go the hammers all the time.
They have planked up her timbers
And the nails are driven to the head;
They have decked her over,
And again, and again.
The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain.
Black and blue breeches,
Pigtails bound and shining:
Like ants crawling about,
The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out.
Joiners, calkers,
And they are all terrible talkers.
Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales
Of whales, and spice islands,
And pirates off the Barbary coast.
He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails.
Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice,
He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings:

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Enoch Arden

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;
And high in heaven behind it a gray down
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago,
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
The prettiest little damsel in the port,
And Philip Ray the miller's only son,
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd
Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,
And built their castles of dissolving sand
To watch them overflow'd, or following up
And flying the white breaker, daily left
The little footprint daily wash'd away.

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
In this the children play'd at keeping house.
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,
While Annie still was mistress; but at times
Enoch would hold possession for a week:
`This is my house and this my little wife.'
`Mine too' said Philip `turn and turn about:'
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
Shriek out `I hate you, Enoch,' and at this
The little wife would weep for company,
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,
And say she would be little wife to both.

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes,
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
To purchase his own boat, and make a home

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The House Of Dust: Complete

I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.


II.

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The Look

1, 2, 3, 4
Walking like a man
Hitting like a hammer
Shes a juvenile scam
Never was a quitter
Tasty like a raindrop
Shes got the look
Heavenly bound
Cause heavens got a number
When shes spinning me around
Kissing is a colour
Her loving is a wild dog
Shes got the look
Shes got the look, -shes got the look-
Shes got the look, -shes got the look-
What in the world can make a brown-eyed girl turn blue
When everything Ill ever do, Ill do for you
And I go: la la la la la
Shes got the look
Fire in the ice
Naked to the t-bone
Is a lovers disguise
Banging on the head drum
Shaking like a mad bull
Shes got the look
Swaying to the band
Moving like a hammer
Shes a miracle man
Loving is the ocean
Kissing is the wet sand
Shes got the look
Shes got the look, -shes got the look-
Shes got the look, -shes got the look-
What in the world can make a brown-eyed girl turn blue
When everything Ill ever do, Ill do for you
And I go: la la la la la
Shes got the look
Walking like a man
Hitting like a hammer
Shes a juvenile scam
Never was a quitter
Tasty like a raindrop
Shes got the look
And she goes:
Na na na na na,
Na na na na na na,
Na na na na na,
Na na na na na na,
Na na na na na na na na,
Shes got the look

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song performed by RoxetteReport problemRelated quotes
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Pawn Shop Aint No Place For A Wedding Ring

A pawn shop aint no place for a wedding ring
Six months from now what will that money mean?
You shop around looking for memories, somehow
The satisfaction dont come that easy
Its a shame you werent satisfied with me
Youre the saddest thing Ive ever seen
A pawn shop aint no place for a wedding ring
Six months from now what will that money mean?
You shop around looking for memories, somehow
The satisfaction dont come that easy
Its a shame you werent satisfied with me
Youre the saddest thing Ive ever seen
A pawn shop aint no place for a wedding ring
Six months from now what will that money mean?
You shop around looking for memories
The satisfaction dont come that easy
Its a shame you werent satisfied with me
Youre the saddest thing Ive ever seen

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The Art of the Lathe

Leonardo imagined the first one.
The next was a pole lathe with a drive cord,
illustrated in Plumier's L'art de tourner en perfection.
Then Ramsden, Vauconson, the great Maudslay,
his student Roberts, Fox, Clement, Whitworth.

The long line of machinists to my left
lean into their work, ungloved hands adjusting the calipers,
tapping the bit lightly with their fingertips.
Each man withdraws into his house of work:
the rough cut, shearing of iron by tempered steel,
blue-black threads lifting like locks of hair,
then breaking over bevel and ridge.
Oil and water splash over the whitening bit, hissing.
The lathe on night-shift, moonlight silvering the bed-ways.

The old man I apprenticed with, Roy Garcia,
in silk shirt, khakis, and Florsheims. Cautious,
almost delicate explanations and slow,
shapely hand movements. Craft by repetition.
Haig and Haig behind the tool chest.

In Diderot's Encyclopaedia, an engraving
of a small machine shop: forge and bellows in back,
in the foreground a mandrel lathe turned by a boy.
It is late afternoon, and the copper light leaking in
from the street side of the shop just catches
his elbow, calf, shoe. Taverns begin to crowd
with workmen curling over their tankards,
still hearing in the rattle of carriages over cobblestone
the steady tap of the treadle,
the gasp and heave of the bellows.

The boy leaves the shop, cringing into the light,
and digs the grime from his fingernails, blue
from bruises. Walking home, he hears a clavier—
Couperin, maybe, a Bach toccata—from a window overhead.
Music, he thinks, the beautiful.
Tavern doors open. Voices. Grab and hustle of the street.
Cart wheels. The small room of his life. The darkening sky.

I listen to the clunk-and-slide of the milling machine,
Maudsley's art of clarity and precision: sculpture of poppet,
saddle, jack screw, pawl, cone-pulley,
the fit and mesh of gears, tooth in groove like interlaced fingers.
I think of Mozart folding and unfolding his napkin
as the notes sound in his head. The new machinist sings Patsy Cline,
I Fall to Pieces. Sparrows bicker overhead.
Screed of the grinder, the bandsaw's groan and wail.

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Strange But True 2 - Footsteps On The Stairs

I was a store man in an engineering factory,
during the early 1960’s when this story took place.
The company had rented and old tailor shop
as an extra storeroom just down the road.
It was time to do a stock take,
in the shop there on my own.
I had been in the building many times before on my own.
That day seemed no exception.
The building had three floors,
the ground floor, and the first floor
where I would be working and the second floor,
which had at one time been a flat.
I was seventeen at the time.

Therefore, I began my work
and began counting the stock,
when from the floor above I could hear
what sounded like a woman’s shoes
pacing around on the wooden floor.
My heart began to beat faster,
as I knew I was the only one in the building.
I said to myself if whatever it was
began to descend the stairs, I was going to be gone.
Then it happened,
my dread.
The footsteps reached the stairs
and began to descend.
I dropped what I was doing,
and down to the ground floor ran.
Once outside I locked the only entrance door
and ran back to the factory,
swearing I would not go back there anymore.
A supervisor saw the fear within me.
It took him an hour to calm me down.

He finally persuaded me
to accompany him back to the shop,
so he could prove to me that there was nothing there.
We would search the shop from top to bottom.
I reluctantly agreed.
The first floor that we checked was the one
where I heard the noise.
It was an empty space;
there was nothing there at all,
only wooden floorboards covered with a layer of dust.
No footprints to indicate someone had been walking there.
Everywhere we searched,
but nothing could we find.
Eventually he said what I heard was only in my mind.
A couple of months went by

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