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I guess because you study the character and you do all those things. But when it comes down to it, it's still my performance, it's still my interpretation. I'm not going to, you know, be a clone - well, I was a clone of Richard Dean Anderson!

quote by Michael Welch
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I Think Im A Clone Now

Isnt it strange
Feels like Im lookin in the mirror
What would people say
If only they knew that I was
Part of some geneticists plan (plan-plan-plan)
Born to be a carbon copy man (man-man-man)
There in a petri dish late one night
They took a donors body cell and fertilized a human egg and so I say
I think Im a clone now
Theres always two of me just a-hangin around
I think Im a clone now
cause every chromosome is a hand-me-down
Look at the way
We go out walking close together
I guess you could say
Im really beside myself
I still remember how it began (gan-gan-gan)
They produced a carbon copy man (man-man-man)
Born in a science lab late one night
Without a mother or a father, just a test tube and a womb with a view
I think Im a clone now (a clone now)
Theres always two of me just a-hangin around
I think Im a clone now (a clone now)
cause every chromosome is a hand-me-down
I think Im a clone now (a clone now)
And I can stay at home while Im out of town
I think Im a clone now (a clone now)
cause every pair of genes is a hand-me-down
Signing autographs for my fans
Come and meet the carbon copy man
Livin in stereo, its all right
Well I can be my own best friend and I can send myself for pizza so I say
I think Im a clone now
Another one of mes always hangin around
I think Im a clone now
cause every chromosome is a hand-me-down
I think Im a clone now (a clone now)
Ive been on oprah winfrey - Im world renowned
I think Im a clone now (a clone now)
And every pair of genes is a hand-me-down
I think Im a clone now (a clone now)
Thats my genetic twin always hangin around
I think Im a clone now (a clone now)
cause every chromosome is a hand-me-down
I think Im a clone now (a clone now)

song performed by Weird Al Yankovic
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Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D.

As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew
From Nature, I believe 'em true:
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.
This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast:
'In all distresses of our friends,
We first consult our private ends;
While Nature, kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us.'

If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes
Our equal rais'd above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you
But would not have him stop my view.
Then let him have the higher post:
I ask but for an inch at most.

If in a battle you should find
One, whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,
A champion kill'd, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?

Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without:
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to see
His brethren write as well as he?
But rather than they should excel,
He'd wish his rivals all in hell.

Her end when emulation misses,
She turns to envy, stings and hisses:
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.

Vain human kind! fantastic race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Swift
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You Are Bold Mother Jillian - Parody Robert Southey, Lewis Carroll

ab ovo usque ad mala 'from the egg to the apples'

'Though you’re old, Mother Jillian', fresh clone said,
'still your heir’s green with envy tonight
your implant’s statistics stand all on their head -
do you think, at your age, it is right?

You are one in a million, for where angels fear
on you tread ungainsaid to your goal,
oracle’s obstacles all disappear
while you stay, true to Way, primly whole.'

“'Right’ and ‘Wrong’ seems a song every century hums
to rune tune range of change through the ages,
so take life as it comes, don’t manipulate sums,
and refuse open rages, closed cages.

Thus in youth, ‘tis the truth” Jill 'chipped' in to the drone,
“I feared chipping might injure the brain,
but, as modern techniques so surpass silly cone,
they enhance life-expectancy’s gain.”

“Three score ten seemed a cause, a pipedream far when wars,
famine, sores, spread disease, - swift turnover -
overturned are old laws as demography soars,
wait for one-twenty par or far over!

More fancy than fact body frozen intact
with the brain from time’s wane reign suspended,
knowledge Science once lacked by researchers is backed,

tears for Styx, fiddlesticks! Years appended! '

'You seem cold, Mother Jillian', clone added with awe
'are your genes quite resistant to time?
Will you share your rare secret, please do not withdraw,
spell out clear Man's peerless pantomime? '

'In the days of mirth's birth, ” Mother Jillian replied,
“I saw that all swore life flew fast,
so abused not my health and great wealth set aside,
I was never poor, needy, need passed.

In the days of words' worth, Middle Earth closed down shop
and, your servant, observant, soon sought
East and West, North and South, the world’s girth for a drop
seat in vat cryogenic resort.

.

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Clone Your Lover

CLONE YOUR LOVER
Clone Clone
Clone your lover
Clone your lover
Hello Hello
who wants the same
Hello Hello
calling your name
Hello Hello
stole your soul
Hello Hello
making you whole
When you're here
I don't care
what you say
what you say to me
as long as you say it
Clone Clone
Clone your lover
Clone your lover
Clone
Hello Hello
you want to know
Hello Hello
who's taking control
When you're here
I don't care
what you say
what you say to me
as long as you say it to me
Clone Clone
Clone your lover
Clone your lover
Wish there was something I could do
Wish there was something else than you
Wish there was the same but new
Wish that I could be with you

song performed by Zeromancer
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A Panegyric Of The Dean In The Person Of A Lady In The North

Resolved my gratitude to show,
Thrice reverend Dean, for all I owe,
Too long I have my thanks delay'd;
Your favours left too long unpaid;
But now, in all our sex's name,
My artless Muse shall sing your fame.
Indulgent you to female kind,
To all their weaker sides are blind:
Nine more such champions as the Dean
Would soon restore our ancient reign;
How well to win the ladies' hearts,
You celebrate their wit and parts!
How have I felt my spirits raised,
By you so oft, so highly praised!
Transform'd by your convincing tongue
To witty, beautiful, and young,
I hope to quit that awkward shame,
Affected by each vulgar dame,
To modesty a weak pretence;
And soon grow pert on men of sense;
To show my face with scornful air;
Let others match it if they dare.
Impatient to be out of debt,
O, may I never once forget
The bard who humbly deigns to chuse
Me for the subject of his Muse!
Behind my back, before my nose,
He sounds my praise in verse and prose.
My heart with emulation burns,
To make you suitable returns;
My gratitude the world shall know;
And see, the printer's boy below;
Ye hawkers all, your voices lift;
'A Panegyric on Dean Swift!'
And then, to mend the matter still,
'By Lady Anne of Market-Hill!'
I thus begin: My grateful Muse
Salutes the Dean in different views;
Dean, butler, usher, jester, tutor;
Robert and Darby's coadjutor;
And, as you in commission sit,
To rule the dairy next to Kit;
In each capacity I mean
To sing your praise. And first as Dean:
Envy must own, you understand your
Precedence, and support your grandeur:
Nor of your rank will bate an ace,
Except to give Dean Daniel place.
In you such dignity appears,
So suited to your state and years!

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poem by Jonathan Swift
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Down By The Riverside

(public domain)
Im gonna lay down my burden, down by the riverside,
Down by the riverside, down by the riverside
Im gonna lay down my burden, down by the riverside,
Im gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
Well, Im gonna put on my long white robe, (where? ) down by the riverside (oh)
Down by the riverside, down by the riverside
Im gonna put on my long white robe, (where? ) down by the riverside
Im gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
Well, Im gonna lay down my sword and shield, (where? ) down by the riverside
Down by the riverside, down by the riverside
Im gonna lay down my sword and shield, (a-ha) down by the riverside
Im gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more
I aint a gonna study war no more, I aint a gonna study war no more

song performed by Elvis Presley
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A Pleasant Ballad Of King Henry II. And The Miller Of Mansfield

Part the First.

Henry, our royall kind, would ride a hunting
To the greene forest so pleasant and faire;
To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping,
Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repaire:
Hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd
For the game, in the same, with good regard.

All a long summers day rode the king pleasantlye,
With all his princes and nobles eche one;
Chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye,
Till the dark evening forc'd all to turne home.
Then at last, riding fast, he had lost quite
All his lords in the wood, late in the night.

Wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe,
With a rude miller he mett at the last;
Asking the ready way unto faire Nottingham,
'Sir,' quoth the miller, 'I meane not to jest,
Yet I thinke, what I thinke, sooth for to say;
You doe not lightlye ride out of your way.'

'Why, what dost thou tihnk of me,' quoth our king merrily,
'Passing thy judgement upon me so briefe?'
'Good faith,' sayd the miller, 'I meane not to flatter thee,
I guess thee to bee but some gentleman thiefe;
Stand thee backe, in the darke; light not adowne,
Lest that I presently crack thy knaves crowne.'

'Thou dost abuse me much,' quoth the king, 'saying thus;
I am a gentleman; lodging I lacke.'
'Thou hast not,' quoth th' miller, 'one groat in thy purse;
All thy inheritance hanges on thy backe.'
'I have gold to discharge all that I call;
If it be forty pence, I will pay all.'

'If thou beest a true man,' then quoth the miller,
'I sweare by my toll-dish, I'll lodge thee all night.'
'Here's my hand,' quoth the king, 'that was I ever.'
'Nay, soft,' quoth the miller, 'thou may'st be a sprite.
Better I'll know thee, ere hands we will shake;
With none but honest men hands will I take.'

Thus they went all along unto the millers house,
Where they were seething of puddings and souse;
The miller first enter'd in, after him went the king;
Never came hee in soe smoakye a house.
'Now,' quoth hee, 'let me see here what you are.'
Quoth our king, 'Looke your fill, and do not spare.'

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Healthy Back Bag

animated bag of chips
amor dive bag
american eagle outfitters bags
ambag poly bags wholesale
american airlines bag limits
american beauty plastic bag theme mp3
amf bowling bag
aluminum tab weave bag
ampac tote bags
american trails atv bag
american tourister bonneville ii garment bag
alt ieri bassoon bag
almond flavored tea bags
ameribag shoulder bags
a mco saddel bags 1977
an enema bag for men
amulet bag book
analyse art falconers bag
amy butler sweet life bag
alto sax bag
alpha kappa alpha diva tote bag
amylou bag in eureka ca
ani hand bags
american west rodeo bags
amex insurance for delayed bags
an interchangeable foundation bag
al verio martini bags
animal bag mp3
american trail ventures atv cargo bags
aluminium coated plastic bags
amy butlet runaway bag pattern
angel bag
animae bop bag
allowed to carry on garment bag
a nimal bag print tote
an imal overnight bag
aloksak bags
amz bag fun src
ameribag microfiber bag
american tourister laptop bag
allied waste service blue bags
american indian medicine bags
alternative to plastic trash bags
amish buggy bag
alpha poly bag
ammo shoulder bag
american sign language tote bags
animated gif people with hand bags
amazing bag grace pipe
altieri bags

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Richard Minutolo

IN ev'ry age, at Naples, we are told,
Intrigue and gallantry reign uncontrolled;
With beauteous objects in abundance blessed.
No country round so many has possessed;
Such fascinating charms the FAIR disclose,
That irresistibly soft passion flows.

'MONG these a belle, enchanting to behold,
Was loved by one, of birth and store of gold;
Minutolo (and Richard) was his name,
In Cupid's train a youth of brilliant fame:
'Tween Rome and Paris none was more gallant,
And num'rous hearts were for him known to pant.

CATELLA (thus was called our lady fair,)
So long, howe'er, resisted Richard's snare,
That prayers, and vows, and promises were vain;
A favour Minutolo could not gain.
At length, our hero weary, coldness showed,
And dropt attendance, since no kindness flowed;
Pretended to be cured:--another sought,
And feigned her charms his tender heart had caught:
Catella laughed, but jealousy was nigh;
'Twas for her friend that now He heaved the sigh.

THESE dames together met, and Richard too,
The gay gallant a glowing picture drew,
Of certain husbands, lovers, prudes, and wives;
Who led in secret most lascivious lives.
Though none he named, Catella was amazed;
His hints suspicions of her husband raised;
And such her agitation and affright,
That, anxious to procure more certain light,
In haste she took Minutolo aside,
And begged the names he would not from her hide,
With all particulars, from first to last:--
Her ardent wish to know whate'er had passed.

SO long your reign, said Richard, o'er my mind,
Deny I could not, howsoe'er inclined;
With Mrs. Simon often is your spouse;
Her character no doubt your spleen will rouse;
I've no design, observe to give offence,
But, when I see your int'rest in suspense,
I cannot silent keep; though, were I still
A slave, devoted wholly to your will,
As late I moved, I would not drop a word
Mistrust of lovers may not be absurd;
Besides, you'd fancy other motives led
To tell you of your husband what was said;

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poem by La Fontaine
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Canto I

ARGUMENT

The Argument ? what needs a Proëme
To vamp a Three-half-penny Poëme ?
No, Reader, No ; ‘twas never writt
For thy sake, but for little Chitt.
St. George oth’ back-side of the Horn-book,
The Dragon kills, to Humour Scorn-book.
And thus to wheddle in young Fops,
The gilded Sign hangs o’re the Shops :
Miss won’t come in to Buy, before
She spies the Knick-knack at the Dore.
Thus Queasie Madams meat forbear
Until they read, The Bill of Fare.
Instead a Frontispiece, or Babbie,
We plac’t to please some puiney Rabbie,
Who hates an Author that enlarges,
And cons the Index to save charges.
Discord, that Tearing, Hectoring Ranter,
Provokes a Dean and his Arch-chanter,
Who had liv’d friendly forty years,
To fall together by the ears ;
A Rotten Pulpit plac’d i’th’ Quire
Furnished fewel to the Fire :
Three swashing Blades, blind Fates agree
Should do the work : but who they bee,
Pray ask the Canto, that can tell
Better than I : and so Farewell
Thus far the Porch, now view the House,
Here is the Mountain, there’s the Mouse.

Immortal feuds, and more than Civil Warrs,
And Fights thô fierce, disfigur’d with no Scarrs
I sing ! And thee Great Prelate, who of late,
Maugre the Changer, and Reluctant Fate
Didst raise at length a Pulpit in the Quire,
Th’ immortal Trophee of thy Mortal Ire.
Twice the Pragmatick Chanter, thô in vain,
Pesum’d to discompose thy peaceful Reign ;
Twice with Schismatick Pride did enterprise
To force the Chapter in Rebellion rise ;
As oft the Dean him swoln with envious rage,
Hurl’d Headlong from high hopes ; and by sage
Sexton assisted, terrify’d the People
Who durst dispute the Title to his Steeple.
Instruct me Muse, for thou canst tell, what Thirst
Of sweeet Revenge, thô Dire, engaged first
Religious Souls to break the Sacred Tye
Of blessed Peace and heaven-born Amitie,
To make old Friends new Rivals ; can there rest

[...] Read more

poem by Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux from Le Lutrin
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Cloned

Clone the children, they're better that way
Clone the children, now they can pray

My world is unaffected

Clone the god, its best when it sighs
Clone the god, it's all inserted lies

My world is unaffected

Clone the world, emotionless insanity
Clone the world, and let the children see

No salvation
No forgiveness
No redemption

Clone the martyr, he's not needing
Clone the martyr, he quit bleeding

No salvation
No forgiveness
No redemption

My world is unaffected

poem by Corey Baker
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The Grand Question Debated: Whether Hamilton’s Bawn Should Be Turned Into A Barrack Or Malt-House

Thus spoke to my lady the knight full of care,
'Let me have your advice in a weighty affair.
This Hamilton's bawn, while it sticks in my hand
I lose by the house what I get by the land;
But how to dispose of it to the best bidder,
For a barrack or malt-house, we now must consider.
'First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house,
Here I have computed the profit will fall t'us:
There's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain,
I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain;
A handsome addition for wine and good cheer,
Three dishes a-day, and three hogsheads a-year;
With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored;
No little scrub joint shall come on my board;
And you and the Dean no more shall combine
To stint me at night to one bottle of wine;
Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloin
A stone and a quarter of beef from my sir-loin.
If I make it a barrack, the crown is my tenant;
My dear, I have ponder'd again and again on't:
In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent,
Whatever they give me, I must be content,
Or join with the court in every debate;
And rather than that, I would lose my estate.'
Thus ended the knight; thus began his meek wife:
'It must, and it shall be a barrack, my life.
I'm grown a mere mopus; no company comes
But a rabble of tenants, and rusty dull rums.
With parsons what lady can keep herself clean?
I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the Dean.
But if you will give us a barrack, my dear,
The captain I'm sure will always come here;
I then shall not value his deanship a straw,
For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe;
Or, should he pretend to be brisk and alert,
Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert;
That men of his coat should be minding their prayers,
And not among ladies to give themselves airs.'
Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain;
The knight his opinion resolved to maintain.
But Hannah, who listen'd to all that was past,
And could not endure so vulgar a taste,
As soon as her ladyship call'd to be dress'd,
Cried, 'Madam, why surely my master's possess'd,
Sir Arthur the maltster! how fine it will sound!
I'd rather the bawn were sunk under ground.
But, madam, I guess'd there would never come good,
When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood.
And now my dream's out; for I was a-dream'd
That I saw a huge rat—O dear, how I scream'd!

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poem by Jonathan Swift
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The Parish Register - Part I: Baptisms

The year revolves, and I again explore
The simple Annals of my Parish poor;
What Infant-members in my flock appear,
What Pairs I bless'd in the departed year;
And who, of Old or Young, or Nymphs or Swains,
Are lost to Life, its pleasures and its pains.
No Muse I ask, before my view to bring
The humble actions of the swains I sing. -
How pass'd the youthful, how the old their days;
Who sank in sloth, and who aspired to praise;
Their tempers, manners, morals, customs, arts,
What parts they had, and how they 'mploy'd their

parts;
By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress'd,
Full well I know-these Records give the rest.
Is there a place, save one the poet sees,
A land of love, of liberty, and ease;
Where labour wearies not, nor cares suppress
Th' eternal flow of rustic happiness;
Where no proud mansion frowns in awful state,
Or keeps the sunshine from the cottage-gate;
Where young and old, intent on pleasure, throng,
And half man's life is holiday and song?
Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears,
By sighs unruffled or unstain'd by tears;
Since vice the world subdued and waters drown'd,
Auburn and Eden can no more be found.
Hence good and evil mixed, but man has skill
And power to part them, when he feels the will!
Toil, care, and patience bless th' abstemious few,
Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue.
Behold the Cot! where thrives th' industrious

swain,
Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain;
Screen'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray
Smiles on the window and prolongs the day;
Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop,
And turn their blossoms to the casement's top:
All need requires is in that cot contain'd,
And much that taste untaught and unrestrain'd
Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace,
In one gay picture, all the royal race;
Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings;
The print that shows them and the verse that sings.
Here the last Louis on his throne is seen,
And there he stands imprison'd, and his Queen;
To these the mother takes her child, and shows
What grateful duty to his God he owes;

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poem by George Crabbe
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Mary had a Little Vamp and Other Parodies after Sarah Josepha HALE

Mary had a little vamp,
whose teeth glowed white as snow,
each night from sightly vent – no cramp -
the crimson droplets flow.

Some followed her from school one day;
though stalking's 'gainst the rules;
it made goose pimples grow and stay
to see them play at ghouls.

But they were caught, their tale remains
from history well hid,
though we discovered their remains
beneath oak coffin lid.

And so blood flowed from inside out,
none dared to lingered near
when shadows shiver, hang about
until Vamps disappear.

'Why does the Vamp love Mary so? '
the eager children cry;
'Why, Mary loves the Vamp, you know, '
the teacher did reply.

Sleep-overs followed, - little Vamp
A, B, AB, O, drew
by light of Mary’s lurid lamp
new haemoglobulu.

Thus vampire Vlad made Mary glad
hark! men well-read may read,
from kid school lad to college grad, -
mark then welt's red fey bead.

He wore a scarlet cape to match
sweet Mary’s ruddy lips,
attached thereto a cup to catch
the rhesus drips he sips.

No fly-by-night awed Mary’s Vamp,
he could fear blend at need,
though sky high flight soared scary champ -
we here end batty screed.

© Jonathan Robin parody written 3 May 2007 revised 3 September 2008 - for previous version see below

Mary had a little vamp,
whose teeth were white as snow,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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My Lady’s Lamantation And Complaint Against The Dean

Sure never did man see
A wretch like poor Nancy,
So teazed day and night
By a Dean and a Knight.
To punish my sins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe,
With Skinny and Snipe:,
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the Dean.

The Dean never stops,
When he opens his chops;
I'm quite overrun
With rebus and pun.
Before he came here,
To spunge for good cheer,
I sat with delight,
From morning till night,
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my old gums,
Or scratching my nose
And jogging my toes;
But at present, forsooth,
I must not rub a tooth.
When my elbows he sees
Held up by my knees,
My arms, like two props,
Supporting my chops,
And just as I handle 'em
Moving all like a pendulum;
He trips up my props,
And down my chin drops
From my head to my heels,
Like a clock without wheels;
I sink in the spleen,
A useless machine.
If he had his will,
I should never sit still:
He comes with his whims
I must move my limbs;
I cannot be sweet
Without using my feet;
To lengthen my breath,
He tires me to death.
By the worst of all squires,
Thro' bogs and thro' briers,
Where a cow would be startled,
I'm in spite of my heart led;

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poem by Jonathan Swift
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The Revenge - A Ballad of the Fleet

I

AT Flores, in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter’d bird, came flying from far away;
“Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!”
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: “’Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?”

II

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: “I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But I’ve ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.”

III

So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down below:
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

IV

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow.
“Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
For to fight is but to die!
There’ll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.”
And Sir Richard said again: “We be all good Englishmen.
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turn’d my back upon Don or devil yet.”

V

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh’d, and we roar’d a hurrah and so
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,
And the little Revenge ran on thro’ the long sea-lane between.

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Richard of Almaigne

A ballad made by one of the adherents to Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, soon after the battle of Lewes, which was fought May 14, 1264.

Sitteth alle stille, ant herkneth to me;
The Kyng of Alemaigne, bi mi leaute,
Thritti thousent pound askede he
For te make the pees in the countre,
Ant so he dude more.
Richard, thah thou he ever trichard,
Trichthen shalt thou never more.

Richard of Alemaigne, whil that he wes kying,
He spende al is tresour opon swyvyng,
Haveth he nout of Walingford oferlyng,
Let him habbe, ase he brew, bale to dryng,
Maugre Windesore,
Richard, thah thou he ever trichard,
Trichthen shalt thou never more.

The Kyng of Alemaigne wende do ful wel,
He saisede the mulne for a castel,
With hare sharpe swerdes he grounde the stel,
He wende that the sayles were mangonel
To helpe Wyndesore.
Richard, thah thou he ever trichard,
Trichthen shalt thou never more.

The Kyng of Alemaigne gederede ys host,
Makede him a castel of a mulne post,
Wende with is prude, ant is muchele bost,
Brohte from Alemayne mony sori gost
To store Wyndesore.
Richard, thah thou he ever trichard,
Trichthen shalt thou never more.

By God, that is aboven ous, he dude muche synne,
That lette passen over see the Erl of Warynne:
He hath robbed Engelond, the mores, ant th fenne,
The gold, ant the selver, and y-boren henne,
For love of Wyndesore.
Richard, thah thou he ever trichard,
Trichthen shalt thou never more.

Sire Simond de Mountfort hath suore bi ys chyn,
Hevede he nou here the Erl of Waryn,
Shuld he never more come to is yn,
Ne with held, ne with spere, ne with other gyn,
To help of Wyndesore.
Richard, thah thou he ever trichard,
Trichthen shalt thou never more.

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Robin Hood

Now here’s the tale of a Derbyshire boy by the name of Robin Dean
who was born near to Buxton where the hills are so green.
His parents struggled to find enough food to feed their family,
so Robin and his brothers stole food regularly.

The gaunt looking Robin was caught stealing at the age of ten
and was sentenced to a life of servitude in the Hall at Elvasten.
He scrubbed floors, washed pots and pans, and cleaned cutlery,
but he dreamed of becoming the Earl’s Master of Archery.

At the age of twelve years he had to learn the ways of the land
and the gamekeeper made sure he was a reliable hand.
Before long he became a maker of longbows and arrows
he then as an archer won prizes at county shows.

King Richard asked his noblemen for men to fight the crusades,
he wanted the best archers and those who could swing blades.
Robin Dean was equipped and sent to fight the Lion Heart’s cause
he became honoured in battle, and won the King’s applause.

Time and time again he produced his archery long-range skills
and was knighted Sir Robin Dean of the Derbyshire Hills.
The King gave him land on the Derbyshire and Nottingham border
to provide a suitable income for a knight of the highest order.

After seven hard years of fighting, the crusades were not going well
King Richard had been captured and imprisoned in a cell.
He was put up for ransom and the cost was highest ever asked,
so the soldiers returned to England to raise gold by the cask.

A storm in the English Channel forced the ship Robin Dean was on
to sail up the coast and dock in the port of Lincoln’s Boston.
He travelled across the county to the land which belonged to him,
but in Nottingham he entered and gained an Archery Tournament win.

This caused eyebrows to be raised throughout the tournament day,
the Nobles didn’t like a stranger taking their prize money away.
Sir Robin Dean the archer, became well known from there on
and he was offered a place to stay at the Castle in Donington.

At supper the Baron asked many questions about the life of his guest,
but Robin said little, which left the Baron to guess.
They eventually said goodnight and went to their bedrooms to retire
and before the sun rose, Robin had left for his estate in Derbyshire.

Sir Robin’s estate bordered into a part of the huge Sherwood Forest
where he was held by robbers demanding the purse from his vest.
Though outnumbered he drew his sword and put up a courageous fight,
but they over powered him, and took him to their forest camp site.

[...] Read more

poem by Orlando Belo
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The Nightingale

NO easy matter 'tis to hold,
Against its owner's will, the fleece
Who troubled by the itching smart
Of Cupid's irritating dart,
Eager awaits some Jason bold
To grant release.
E'en dragon huge, or flaming steer,
When Jason's loved will cause no fear.

Duennas, grating, bolt and lock,
All obstacles can naught avail;
Constraint is but a stumbling block;
For youthful ardour must prevail.
Girls are precocious nowadays,
Look at the men with ardent gaze,
And longings' an infinity;
Trim misses but just in their teens
By day and night devise the means
To dull with subtlety to sleep
The Argus vainly set to keep
In safety their virginity.
Sighs, smiles, false tears, they'll fain employ
An artless lover to decoy.
I'll say no more, but leave to you,
Friend reader, to pronounce if true
What I've asserted when you have heard
How artful Kitty, caged her bird.

IN a small town in Italy,
The name of which I do not know,
Young Kitty dwelt, gay, pretty, free,
Varambon's child.--Boccacio
Omits her mother's name, which not
To you or me imports a jot.
At fourteen years our Kitty's charms
Were all that could be wished--plump arms,
A swelling bosom; on her cheeks
Roses' and lilies' mingled streaks,
A sparkling eye--all these, you know,
Speak well for what is found below.
With such advantages as these
No virgin sure could fail to please,
Or lack a lover; nor did Kate;
But little time she had to wait;
One soon appeared to seal her fate.
Young Richard saw her, loved her, wooed her--
What swain I ask could have withstood her?
Soft words, caresses, tender glances,
The battery of love's advances,
Soon lit up in the maiden's breast

[...] Read more

poem by La Fontaine
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Campaigner

I am a lonely visitor.
I came too late to cause a stir,
Though I campaigned all my life towards that goal.
I hardly slept the night you wept
Our secrets safe and still well kept
Where even richard nixon has got soul.
Even richard nixon has got
Soul.
Traffic cops are all color blind.
People steal from their own kind.
Evening comes to early for a stroll.
Down neon streets the streaker streaks.
The speaker speaks, but the truth still leaks,
Where even richard nixon has got soul.
Even richard nixon has got it,
Soul.
The podium rocks in the crowded waves.
The speaker talks of the beautiful saves
That went down long before he played this role
For the hotel queens and the magazines,
Test tube genes and slot machines
Where even richard nixon got soul.
Even richard nixon has got it,
Soul.
Hospitals have made him cry,
But theres always a free way in his eye,
Though his beach just got to crowded for his stroll.
Roads stretch out like healthy veins,
And wild gift horses strain the reins,
Where even richard nixon has got soul.
Even richard nixon has got
Soul.
I am a lonely visitor.
I came too late to cause a stir,
Though I campaigned all my life towards that goal.

song performed by Neil Young
Added by Lucian Velea
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