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We are under a Constitution, but the Constitution is what the judges say it is, and the judiciary is the safeguard of our property and our liberty and our property under the Constitution.

quote by Charles Evans Hughes
Added by Lucian Velea
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Liberty

(if you wanna stay with me, at your liberty
If you wanna be with me, at your liberty)
-
(ahh, ohh, do-doo)
Ill tell you something,
To let you understand the way I feel, just what you mean to me
Thank you for fine times, we nearly made it all -
The way we know, it wasnt meant to be.
You say we feel the same, there aint no blame.. to decide
But if a little time, could change your mind, Ill be here..
And you can call me (if you wanna stay with me) at your liberty.
You can hold me (if you wanna be with me) at your liberty.
(do you, do you)
Do you remember, how lovers right for summers - even nights,
Would never seem to end,
And as december, comes stirring with that finger of desire
To feel it once again
You worry bout youre friends, what if they find whats going on?
But if you want to try to make it come alive, Ill be here..
And you can call me (you wanna stay with me) at your liberty.
You can hold me (you wanna be with me) at your liberty.
And you can call me (you wanna stay with me) at your liberty.
And you can touch me girl (you wanna run to me) at your liberty.
Help me out!
I live in doubt
Sort me out, yeaaaahhhhhhh....
-
Dont make it every night, dont wanna be the love of your life
So if you are inclined to spend a little time, Ill be here..
And you can call me (if you wanna stay with me) at your liberty.
You can hold me (if you wanna be with me) at your liberty.
And you can call me (if you wanna stay with me) at your liberty.
And you can touch me girl (if you wanna run to me) at your liberty.
Touch me girl, (if you wanna stay with me) at your liberty.
Help me out, (if you wanna be with me) at your liberty.
Sort me out, (if you wanna run to me), at your liberty.
Or you can set me free (if you wanna run to me), at your liberty.
(if you wanna stay with me, at your liberty).
(if you wanna be with me, at your liberty).
(if you wanna stay with me, at your liberty).
(if you wanna run to me, at your liberty).
At your liberty...

song performed by Duran Duran
Added by Lucian Velea
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Property O My Property

property o my property
i use to be a man fine and witty
no cares in the world full of terimity
untill the heavens fell off my dad was murdered
and i was stranded with his property

property o my property
three flats into one, office, home and land what fun
rentals 6% home appreciation by 10%
money in black some in white
o my friends try and understand my plight

property o my property
some say it's worth 50 crs some say it's less
i use to be a free bird before
god knows how i landed up in this mess
brokers, dalla's, buyers and sellers
i have two houses still i am a lonely dweller

property o my property
what the hell to do with you
buy or sell take or give
now my life is not a life but a hell in which i live
property my property
o my dad's property

property o property o my dad's property
my well wishers say i cannot be trusted
to handle all this and i sure will be busted
so my friends you see my situation is dire
it's time like this that i feel i am walking on fire

property o property my dad's property

poem by Anuj Tikku
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Elegiac Feelings American

1
How inseparable you and the America you saw yet was never
there to see; you and America, like the tree and the
ground, are one the same; yet how like a palm tree
in the state of Oregon. . . dead ere it blossomed,
like a snow polar loping the
Miami—
How so that which you were or hoped to be, and the
America not, the America you saw yet could
not see
So like yet unlike the ground from which you stemmed;
you stood upon America like a rootless
Hat-bottomed tree; to the squirrel there was no
divorcement in its hop of ground to its climb of
tree. . . until it saw no acorn fall, then it knew
there was no marriage between the two; how
fruitless, how useless, the sad unnaturalness
of nature; no wonder the dawn ceased being
a joy. . . for what good the earth and sun when
the tree in between is good for nothing. . . the
inseparable trinity, once dissevered, becomes a
cold fruitless meaningless thrice-marked
deathlie in its awful amputation. . . O butcher
the pork-chop is not the pig—The American
alien in America is a bitter truncation; and even
this elegy, dear Jack, shall have a butchered
tree, a tree beaten to a pulp, upon which it'll be
contained—no wonder no good news can be
written on such bad news—
How alien the natural home, aye, aye, how dies the tree when
the ground is foreign, cold, unfree—The winds
know not to blow the seed of the Redwood where
none before stood; no palm is blown to Oregon,
how wise the wind—Wise
too the senders of the prophet. . . knowing the
fertility of the designated spot where suchmeant
prophecy be announced and answerable—the
sower of wheat does not sow in the fields of cane;
for the sender of the voice did also send the ear.
And were little Liechtenstein, and not America, the
designation. . . surely then we'd the tongues of
Liechtenstein—
Was not so much our finding America as it was America finding
its voice in us; many spoke to America as though
America by land-right was theirs by law-right
legislatively acquired by materialistic coups of
wealth and inheritance; like the citizen of society
believes himself the owner of society, and what he
makes of himself he makes of America and thus when
he speaks of America he speaks of himself, and quite

[...] Read more

poem by Gregory Corso
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The Task: Book V. -- The Winter Morning Walk

‘Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,
Resemble most some city in a blaze,
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From every herb and every spiry blade
Stretches a length of shadow o’er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
In spite of gravity, and sage remark
That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
I view the muscular proportion’d limb
Transform’d to a lean shank. The shapeless pair
As they design’d to mock me, at my side
Take step for step; and as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster’d wall,
Preposterous sight! the legs without the man.
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents
And coarser grass, upspearing o’er the rest,
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad,
And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
Their wonted fodder; not like hungering man,
Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-paced swain’s delay.
He from the stack carves out the accustom’d load,
Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft,
His broad keen knife into the solid mass:
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,
With such undeviating and even force
He severs it away: no needless care,
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.
Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern’d
The cheerful haunts of man; to wield the axe
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,
From morn to eve his solitary task.
Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears
And tail cropp’d short, half lurcher and half cur,
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel
Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk
Wide scampering, snatches up the driften snow
With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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Property

I'll be your fantasy, but I won't be your property
Love you eternally, but I'll never be your property
Love from me's not guaranteed
Just because you think I'm property
I can love you totally and still not be your property
Every girl and boy wants to grow up to be loved someday
And you can't wait to give your heart away
But it's like worship in their eyes walking down the aisle
When you slip on that ring, they start to treat you like a thing, yeah
I call it slavery when you call someone your property
Don't waste your vanity, I will never be your property
Something wonderful happens when people fall in love
Your happiness is all they're thinking of
But it's like "anything you say" 'til the wedding day
When they get it in ink, they start to tell you what to think, yeah
Darkest day in history when someone invented property
Cause of our misery is the constant lust for property
Since god began it, we've been dividing up the planet
When you see something you want it
You've got to put your name tag on it
And we go on carving, meanwhile half the world is starving
It's a crime .. hands off what is mine!
Take all you can 'til you slam on the parking brake
And you need space to make your own mistakes
But it's like "I won't hold you back" 'til the bags are packed
Then they're struttin' about like they own you inside out
I call it slavery (you can't make me a slave),
when you call someone your property
Don't waste your vanity (don't be so vain),
I will never be your property
Darkest day in history (why did you have to do a thing like that)
when someone invented property
Cause of our misery (misery, misery)
is the constant lust for property

song performed by Todd Rundgren
Added by Lucian Velea
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M'Fingal - Canto III

Now warm with ministerial ire,
Fierce sallied forth our loyal 'Squire,
And on his striding steps attends
His desperate clan of Tory friends.
When sudden met his wrathful eye
A pole ascending through the sky,
Which numerous throngs of whiggish race
Were raising in the market-place.
Not higher school-boy's kites aspire,
Or royal mast, or country spire;
Like spears at Brobdignagian tilting,
Or Satan's walking-staff in Milton.
And on its top, the flag unfurl'd
Waved triumph o'er the gazing world,
Inscribed with inconsistent types
Of Liberty and thirteen stripes.
Beneath, the crowd without delay
The dedication-rites essay,
And gladly pay, in antient fashion,
The ceremonies of libation;
While briskly to each patriot lip
Walks eager round the inspiring flip:
Delicious draught! whose powers inherit
The quintessence of public spirit;
Which whoso tastes, perceives his mind
To nobler politics refined;
Or roused to martial controversy,
As from transforming cups of Circe;
Or warm'd with Homer's nectar'd liquor,
That fill'd the veins of gods with ichor.
At hand for new supplies in store,
The tavern opes its friendly door,
Whence to and fro the waiters run,
Like bucket-men at fires in town.
Then with three shouts that tore the sky,
'Tis consecrate to Liberty.
To guard it from th' attacks of Tories,
A grand Committee cull'd of four is;
Who foremost on the patriot spot,
Had brought the flip, and paid the shot.

By this, M'Fingal with his train
Advanced upon th' adjacent plain,
And full with loyalty possest,
Pour'd forth the zeal, that fired his breast.

"What mad-brain'd rebel gave commission,
To raise this May-pole of sedition?

[...] Read more

poem by John Trumbull
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Lucky Man

Happiness
Happiness
More or less
More or less
Its just a change in me
Its just a change in me
Something in my liberty
Something in my liberty
Oh, my, my
Oh, my, my
Happiness
Happiness
Coming and going
Coming and going
I watch you look at me
I watch you look at me
Watch my fever growing
Watch my fever growing
I know just where I am
I know just where I am
But how many corners do I have to turn?
How many times do I have to learn
But how many corners do I have to turn?
All the love I have is in my mind?
How many times do I have to learn
All the love I have is in my mind?
Well, Im a lucky man
With fire in my hands
Well, Im a lucky man
Happiness
With fire in my hands
Something in my own place
Im standing naked
Smiling, I feel no disgrace
Happiness
With who I am
Something in my own place
Im standing naked
Happiness
Smiling, I feel no disgrace
Coming and going
With who I am
I watch you look at me
Watch my fever growing
I know just who I am
Happiness
Coming and going
But how many corners do I have to turn?
I watch you look at me
How many times do I have to learn

[...] Read more

song performed by Verve
Added by Lucian Velea
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Lucky Man

Happiness
Happiness
More or less
More or less
Its just a change in me
Its just a change in me
Something in my liberty
Something in my liberty
Oh, my, my
Oh, my, my
Happiness
Happiness
Coming and going
Coming and going
I watch you look at me
I watch you look at me
Watch my fever growing
Watch my fever growing
I know just where I am
I know just where I am
But how many corners do I have to turn?
How many times do I have to learn
But how many corners do I have to turn?
All the love I have is in my mind?
How many times do I have to learn
All the love I have is in my mind?
Well, Im a lucky man
With fire in my hands
Well, Im a lucky man
Happiness
With fire in my hands
Something in my own place
Im standing naked
Smiling, I feel no disgrace
Happiness
With who I am
Something in my own place
Im standing naked
Happiness
Smiling, I feel no disgrace
Coming and going
With who I am
I watch you look at me
Watch my fever growing
I know just who I am
Happiness
Coming and going
But how many corners do I have to turn?
I watch you look at me
How many times do I have to learn

[...] Read more

song performed by Verve
Added by Lucian Velea
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IX. Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius, Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus

Had I God's leave, how I would alter things!
If I might read instead of print my speech,—
Ay, and enliven speech with many a flower
Refuses obstinate to blow in print,
As wildings planted in a prim parterre,—
This scurvy room were turned an immense hall;
Opposite, fifty judges in a row;
This side and that of me, for audience—Rome:
And, where yon window is, the Pope should hide—
Watch, curtained, but peep visibly enough.
A buzz of expectation! Through the crowd,
Jingling his chain and stumping with his staff,
Up comes an usher, louts him low, "The Court
"Requires the allocution of the Fisc!"
I rise, I bend, I look about me, pause
O'er the hushed multitude: I count—One, two—

Have ye seen, Judges, have ye, lights of law,—
When it may hap some painter, much in vogue
Throughout our city nutritive of arts,
Ye summon to a task shall test his worth,
And manufacture, as he knows and can,
A work may decorate a palace-wall,
Afford my lords their Holy Family,—
Hath it escaped the acumen of the Court
How such a painter sets himself to paint?
Suppose that Joseph, Mary and her Babe
A-journeying to Egypt, prove the piece:
Why, first he sedulously practiseth,
This painter,—girding loin and lighting lamp,—
On what may nourish eye, make facile hand;
Getteth him studies (styled by draughtsmen so)
From some assistant corpse of Jew or Turk
Or, haply, Molinist, he cuts and carves,—
This Luca or this Carlo or the like.
To him the bones their inmost secret yield,
Each notch and nodule signify their use:
On him the muscles turn, in triple tier,
And pleasantly entreat the entrusted man
"Familiarize thee with our play that lifts
"Thus, and thus lowers again, leg, arm and foot!"
—Ensuring due correctness in the nude.
Which done, is all done? Not a whit, ye know!
He,—to art's surface rising from her depth,—
If some flax-polled soft-bearded sire be found,
May simulate a Joseph, (happy chance!)—
Limneth exact each wrinkle of the brow,
Loseth no involution, cheek or chap,
Till lo, in black and white, the senior lives!
Is it a young and comely peasant-nurse

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance

When liberty valance came to town
The women folk would hide
Theyd hide
When liberty valance walked around
The men would step aside
Because the point of a gun
Was the only law that liberty understood
When it came to shooting
Straight and fast
He was mighty good
From out of the east a stranger came
A law book in his hand
A man the kind of man
The west would need to ease a troubled land
Because the point of a gun
Was the only law that liberty understood
When it came to shooting
Straight and fast
He was mighty good
Many a man would face his gun
And many a man would fall
The man who shot liberty valance
He shot liberty valance
He was the bravest of them all
Now the love of a woman can make a man
Stay on when he should go
Stay on
Just trying to build a peaceful life
Where love is free to go
But the point of a gun
Was the only law that liberty understood
When it came to shooting
Straight and fast
He was mighty good
Alone and afraid she prayed that hed
Return that fateful night
That night
When nothing she said could keep her man
From going out to fight
But the point of a gun
Was the only law that liberty understood
When the final showdown came to pass
A law book was no good
Out in the sun two shots rang out
The shots made liberty fall
The man who shot liberty valance
He shot liberty valance
He was the bravest of them all

song performed by James Taylor
Added by Lucian Velea
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

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

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

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

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Holy Constitution

Read ye here the song as sung
By a chief named, briefly, Ung.
In the days when arguments were manly axes:
'O my people, this my Law
Is without defect or flaw,
And it governs ways and means and rates and taxes.
To amend it were unwise;
And if any tribesman tries,
He will meet with swift unerring retribution.
'Tis omnipotent, infallible, as all may recognise;
In short, it is out Noble Constitution.'

When this Neolithic man
Gave the world his early plan
Of tribal laws to bind his nascent nation,
He opined, with fine conceit,
That his System was complete,
And the acme of all human legislation.
'For all time this Law shall stand!'
He decreed with manner grand
And a splendid disregard for evolution;
And the Tory crowd that followed, bore this tenet in its hand:
'You must never touch the Sacred Constitution.'

So the Party then in power,
To improve the shining hour,
Contracted quite a pleasing little habit:
Safely guarded in their 'right,'
If they fancied aught in sight,
Being 'constitutionally safe,' they'd grab it.
And they told the rank and file,
With a patronising smile,
When the People talked of 'wrongs' and 'persecution,'
'It is very, very sad, and, no doubt, your case is bad;
But we cannot tamper with the Constitution.'

But meat-winners of the day
(Rabid Socialists were they)
By slow degrees arrived at this conclusion:
That the hide-bound Tory joss
Totalled mainly bluff and dross,
And its 'sacredness' was wholly an illusion.
Then with yells and growlings vile,
In their quaint primeval style
They planned a prehistoric revolution;
And with bits of tertiary rock they wrecked the Torries' smile
And, incidentally, the Constitution.

All this happened, as you know,
Quite a long, long time ago;

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Table Talk

A. You told me, I remember, glory, built
On selfish principles, is shame and guilt;
The deeds that men admire as half divine,
Stark naught, because corrupt in their design.
Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears
The laurel that the very lightning spares;
Brings down the warrior’s trophy to the dust,
And eats into his bloody sword like rust.
B. I grant that, men continuing what they are,
Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war,
And never meant the rule should be applied
To him that fights with justice on his side.
Let laurels drench’d in pure Parnassian dews
Reward his memory, dear to every muse,
Who, with a courage of unshaken root,
In honour’s field advancing his firm foot,
Plants it upon the line that Justice draws,
And will prevail or perish in her cause.
‘Tis to the virtues of such men man owes
His portion in the good that Heaven bestows.
And, when recording History displays
Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days,
Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died,
Where duty placed them, at their country’s side;
The man that is not moved with what he reads,
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,
Unworthy of the blessings of the brave,
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
But let eternal infamy pursue
The wretch to nought but his ambition true,
Who, for the sake of filling with one blast
The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste.
Think yourself station’d on a towering rock,
To see a people scatter’d like a flock,
Some royal mastiff panting at their heels,
With all the savage thirst a tiger feels;
Then view him self-proclaim’d in a gazette
Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet.
The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced,
Those ensigns of dominion how disgraced!
The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour,
And Death’s own scythe, would better speak his power;
Then grace the bony phantom in their stead
With the king’s shoulder-knot and gay cockade;
Clothe the twin brethren in each other’s dress,
The same their occupation and success.
A. ‘Tis your belief the world was made for man;
Kings do but reason on the self-same plan:
Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn,
Who think, or seem to think, man made for them.

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poem by William Cowper
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An Epistle Of The Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole

Still let low wits, who sense nor honour prize,
Sneer at all gratitude, all truth disguise;
At living worth, because alive, exclaim,
Insult the exil'd, and the dead defame!
Such paint what pity veils in private woes,
And what we see with grief, with mirth expose;
Studious to urge-(whom will mean authors spare?)
The child's, the parent's, and the consort's tear:
Unconscious of what pangs the heart may rend,
To lose what they have ne'er deserv'd-a friend.
Such, ignorant of facts, invent, relate,
Expos'd persist, and answer'd still debate:
Such, but by foils, the clearest lustre see,
And deem aspersing others praising thee.

Far from these tracks my honest lays aspire,
And greet a gen'rous heart with gen'rous fire.
Truth be my guide! Truth, which thy virtue claims!
This, nor the poet, nor the patron shames!
When party-minds shall lose contracted views,
And hist'ry question the recording Muse;
'Tis this alone to after-times must shine,
And stamp the poet and his theme divine.

Long has my Muse, from many a mournful cause,
Sung with small pow'r, nor sought sublime applause;
From that great point she now shall urge her scope;
On that fair promise rest her future hope;
Where policy, from state-illusion clear,
Can through an open aspect shine sincere;
Where Science, Law, and Liberty depend,
And own the patron, patriot, and the friend;
(That breast to feel, that eye on worth to gaze,
That smile to cherish, and that hand to raise!)
Whose best of hearts her best of thoughts inflame,
Whose joy is bounty, and whose gift is fame.

Where, for relief, flees innocence distress'd?
To you, who chase oppression from th' oppress'd:
Who, when complaint to you alone belongs,
Forgive your own, tho' not a people's wrongs:
Who still make public property your care,
And thence bid private griefs no more despair.

Ask they what state your shelt'ring care shall own?
'Tis youth, 'tis age, the cottage, and the throne:

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Savage
Added by Poetry Lover
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Whats Mine Is Mine

Key:-
A - anita
R - ray
A: oh, oh, all right; oh, oh, allright
Oh, oh, all right; oh, oh, allright
Oh, oh, all right; oh, oh, allright
My property, my property
A: oh, oh, all right; oh, oh, allright
Oh, oh, all right; oh, oh, allright
R: whats mine is mine hold theres the line
Stop following me from the back all of the time
Theres one of me, one of a kind
Sorry Im first, excuse me do you mind
You wanna be the same and put me out of frame
I got my own style, so you must be insane
Yes theres something else you can find
So dont touch mine, whats mine is mine
A: why do you want to be like me?
Why do you want whats mine?
You know this is my property, babe, youre losing this time
You are wasting time and energy cause you just cant take whats mine
You better save your time and energy gotta get it out of your mind
Whats mine is mine!
R: step back, step back
A: whats mine is mine
Whats mine is mine
Youre wasting your time
R: step back, step back
A: whats mine is mine
Oh, oh, all right
R: dont waste your time and energy
Cause nobody in the world can be like me
Youre looking for something I already found
A smoother move, a better sound
Represent yourself as me, myself, and i
Make your own plan, come on and try!
Ideas nowadays are hard to find
But dont touch mine whats mine is mine!
A: why do you want to be like me?
Why do you want whats mine?
You know this is my property, babe, youre losing this time
You are wasting time and energy cause you just cant take whats mine
You better save your time and energy gotta get it out of your mind
Whats mine is mine!
A: oh....
R: whats mine is mine
Whats mine is mine
A: oh, oh, all right, oh, oh, all right, oh, oh, all right
My property, my property, oh, oh, all right, oh, oh, all right, oh, oh, all right
R: whats mine is mine

[...] Read more

song performed by 2 Unlimited
Added by Lucian Velea
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Year Of The Boomerang

Tha sistas are in so check the front line
Seems I spent the 80s in the haiti state of mind
Cast me into classes for electro shock
Straight incarcerated, the curriculums a cell block
Im swimmin in half truths and it makes me wanna spit
Instructor come separate the healthy from tha sick
Ya weigh me on a scale, smellin burnt skin
Its dark now in dachau and Im screamin from within
cause Im cell locked in tha doctrines of tha right
Enslaved by dogma, talk about my birthrights
Yet at every turn Im runnin into hells gates
So I grip tha cannon like fanon an pass tha shells to my classmates
Aw, power to tha people
cause tha bosses right ta live is mine ta die
So Im goin out heavy sorta like mount tai
Wit tha five centuries of penitentiary so let tha guilty hang
In tha year of tha boomerang
I got no property but yo Im a piece of it
So let tha guilty hang
I got no property but yo Im a piece of it
In the year of tha boomerang
I got no property but yo Im a piece of it
So let tha guilty hang
I got no property but yo Im a piece of it
In the year of tha boomerang
Yeah!
Now its upon you!
Now its upon you!
Tha sistas are in so check the front line
Seems I spent the 80s in the haiti state of mind
Cast me into classes for electro shock
Straight incarcerated, the curriculums a cell block
Swimmin in half truths and it makes me wanna spit
Instructor come separate the healthy from tha sick
Ya weigh me on a scale, Im smellin burnt skin
Its dark now in dachau and Im screamin from within
cause Im cell locked in tha doctrines of tha right
Enslaved by dogma, talk about my birthrights
Yet at every turn Im runnin into hells gates
So I grip tha cannon like fanon an pass tha shells to my classmates
Aw, power to tha people, yeah, yeah
Tha bosses right ta live is mine ta die
Im goin out heavy sorta like mount tai
Wit tha five centuries of penitentiary so let tha guilty hang
In tha year of tha boomerang
I got no property but yo Im a piece of it
So let tha guilty hang
I got no property but yo Im a piece of it
Uh! in the year of tha boomerang
I got no property but yo Im a piece of it

[...] Read more

song performed by Rage Against The Machine
Added by Lucian Velea
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Five ballades with a prologue

(after W.E.G. Louw)

Prologue: The child of God

From the creation,
long before the time of Plato and Aristotle
the word of God was the child’s criterion
while he ruled over everything.

When darkness rose right across the earth
others came in rebellion
wanted to show the God of creation
that they do not regard Him
and did not want to believe him

that destruction will follow upon their deeds,
that rain will fall in a terrible flood
that flooding will come as a result
from the hand of the God of the universe.

The child constructed a ship
went into its shelter with his wife,
children and animals
believing that the hand of the Almighty God
was sheltering
while the others in destruction
begged and cried for mercy.

The child walked through the palace of Pharaoh
could not convert his mother Hatshepsut
to the Almighty God,
saw whips lashing on the backs of his brothers
wanted to stop the lashing
on of one of them.

Right through the sea the child led his people
with crushing water closing on Pharaoh’s army,
right through the desert
his eyes were set on the Promised Land
while he trusted God.

When God Himself came to this earth,
taught people about love,
the child followed Him,
he baptised people and converted them

until on a Friday
on which the curtain ripped right through,
with God innocently hanging on a cross
while evil people mocked, cursed

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
Added by Poetry Lover
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Liberty In Christ

In God Believers have liberty, going beyond what the eye can see,
We get this liberty in Jesus Christ, liberty gained through New Life.
Freedom from sin and The Law, bestowed upon the believing soul,
This freedom we have in God’s Son, is available today to everyone.

The liberty that we have from sin, gives Believers His peace within,
As sin’s desire died on the cross, God now purges remaining dross,
And God replaces old sinfulness, with Jesus Christ’s righteousness.
Even though we’re tempted by sin, in Christ we have victory in Him.

As Believers we use our liberty, to point the entire world to Calvary,
Where New Life for all the lost, begins for all at The Savior’s Cross.
As God judged sin and shame, on the cross bearing Christ’s name,
Where we left the bondage of sin, and freedom we received in Him.

This liberty we receive in this life, is used for honoring Jesus Christ,
Not for pursuing our own desires, but His will which is much higher.
We’ve been freed from religion friend, to point souls to a better end,
With God’s Truth that sets men free, with God’s Promise of Eternity.

My friend, The God of all Eternity, desires to give all men this liberty,
A liberty found only in His Son, who upon the cross said “It is done”,
Finished is the work of God’s salvation, by His Son, for every nation.
So all men can receive this liberty, with God’s assurance of Eternity.

(Copyright ©11/2006)

poem by Bob Gotti
Added by Poetry Lover
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