You can't go around the theatres handing out cards saying, 'It isn't my fault'. You go onto the next one.
quote by Preston Sturges
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Related quotes
Nobodys Fault But Mine
Nina simone
Ah, nobodys fault but mine
Nobodys fault but mine
Tryin to raise my soul to light
Ah, have a Bible in my home
Have a Bible in my home
Tryin to raise my soul to light
.. taught me how to read
.. taught me how to read
Tryin to raise my soul to light
Nobodys fault but mine.
Oh lord, nobodys fault but mine
Tryin to raise my soul to light
Ah have a Bible in my home
Have a Bible in my home
Tryin to raise my soul to light
Oh, buddy she taught me how to read
Buddy she taught me how to read
Tryin to raise my soul to light.
Ah, lord, lord, nobodys fault but mine
Bible and my soul tonight
And sister she taught me how to read
Sister she taught me how to read
Bible and my soul tonight.
Ah, no, no, nobodys fault but mine.
Bible and my soul tonight.
Nobodys fault but mine
Nobodys fault but mine
Tryin to raise my soul to the light
Nobodys fault but mine
Got a Bible in my home
Got a Bible in my home
Tryin to raise my soul to the light
Nobodys fault but mine - yeah!
Sister she taught me to roll
My sister she taught me to roll
I roll along the line
Nobodys fault but mine
Nobodys fault but mine
Nobodys fault but mine
Ill raise my soul to the light
Nobodys fault but mine
Take it on, take it on
I got a monkey on my back
I gotta monkey on my back, back, back
Ill raise my soul to the light
Nobodys fault but mine - yeah
Nobodys fault but mine
Nobodys fault but mine
Ill raise my soul to the light
[...] Read more
song performed by Nina Simone
Added by Lucian Velea
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Beginning of destruction
pride it’s all your fault
Pride it’s all your fault we in this mess
Pride it’s all your fault we are suffering
Pride it’s all your fault people are shedding blood
Pride it’s all your fault families are destroyed
Pride it’s all your fault people are so greedy and selfish
Pride it’s all your fault people have no love
Pride it’s all your fault are so jealous of each other
Pride it’s all your fault people are so lost
Pride it’s all your fault dying from this horrible diseases
Pride it’s all your fault we have so many orphans
Pride it’s all your fault people are betraying each other
Pride it’s all your fault are dying of hunger
Pride it’s all your fault fathers are sleeping with their children
Pride it’s all your fault people are so heartless
Pride it’s all your fault there is no peace, unity and harmony in this world
Pride it’s all your fault we have all this sorrow
Pride it’s all your fault God has rejected us
Pride it’s all your fault people are so evil
And they have decided to be in love with evil rather than good
You have ruined this world
You are to blame for all this misery
If lucifer did not have pride in his heart we wouldn’t be in this mess
Pride it all your fault! ! !
Vangile Mtyali
poem by Vangile Mtyali
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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No, it is Not your Fault.
Poem Title: No, It is not your Fault. Acrostic Poem 153
No, it is not your fault!
Oh how many times must I say this, it is not your fault.
It is not your fault, from now on I want you to believe it, it is not your fault.
Try always and forever from this time on to master the fact that it is not your fault.
It is not your fault, Nobody is to blame, no thing, no way, no how, it is not your fault.
Since childhood have you not continually taken the blame upon yourself, It was not your fault.
Never wishing to cast doubt upon what a wonderful person you are, It is not your fault.
Out side of the love of friends and family are you seen as just a number, No, it's not your fault.
They may never get close enough to see the light you radiate, No, it is not your fault
Yesterday, troubles, debt, sorrow, disappointment, failure dogged your step, It was not your fault.
Over years, with hindsight your advantage, do you now see the illuminated sign on every corner?
Understanding dawns at last, Understanding all and everything gone before, was not your fault.
Redemption now at hand, you are at the gateway all your skills intact, you are loved with all faults.
Faults have given you a tool bag filled with wisdom, mistakes having been made rectified always.
All ways, All roads, All pathways trod, All modes explored, All embarrassments suffered, never at fault
Unless you count on all you meet as being with all faults, help them then aboard faults and all.
Light their hearts with your love and forgiveness despite the faults, will erase the faults you own.
That fault you thought you had was just my way of Guiding Angels through the maze Alone.
Written in the Now gifted to The 1000th Man with grateful thanks 8th September 2009
poem by Philip Winchester
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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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To Keep A Shrill Unending
I see it in your face...
Baybee,
I see it in your face...
Pretty when you're giving lickings.
I see it in your face...
Baybee,
I see it in your face...
Pretty when you're giving lickings.
You don't want to listen,
When your pretty giving lickins.
All you want to do is find a fault.
All you want to do is find a fault.
You don't want to listen,
All you want to do is find a fault.
All you want to do is find a fault.
To begin the stinging.
All you want to do is find a fault.
To keep a shrill unending.
All you want to do is find a fault,
To begin the stinging.
All you want to do is find a fault,
To keep a shrill unending.
You don't want to listen,
All you want to do is find a fault.
I see it in your face...
Baybee,
I see it in your face...
Pretty when you're giving lickings.
I see it in your face...
Baybee,
I see it in your face...
Pretty when you're giving lickings.
Baybee,
All you want to do with me is find a fault.
Baybee,
All you want to do with me is find a fault.
Baybee,
All you want to do with me is find a fault.
Baybee,
All you want to do with me is find a fault.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Punch Up At 'Dart Man's Aim
Fifteen stone and just five foot eight
And yet he doesn't seem overweight
Deep, deep chest and shoulders wide
The strongest in this countryside.
He's the mighty Dan the frog
From the house beside the bog
Swarthy looking with raven hair
A happy man without a care.
He's no plans to take a wife
As he prefers the single life
And he's still a young man anyway
Just twenty five on his last birthday
Froggy is his dad's nickname
And that's from where the name frog came
But his nickname of frog he doesn't appreciate
In fact the word called frog he's grown to hate.
Fastest man for miles around
To part with the green back pound
In him you'll find nothing cheap
Money he can't seem to keep.
He's a happy sort of bloke
Happy even when he's broke
He's got the right mentality
Never down, always carefree.
Likes his guinness doesn't like beer
Drinks his liquor with good cheer,
Whiskey makes the man walk tall
And he likes whiskey best of all.
He is merciful though strong
And without good reason won't do wrong
But do him wrong and he will fight
And with his fists he'll put things right.
He'd prefer to crack your jaw
Than chastise you with the law
Solves his problems like a man
That's the way it is with Dan.
And though when need arise he can be hard
Dan the frog is no blaghguard
But his type you don't kick around
As men like him do not yield ground
[...] Read more
poem by Francis Duggan
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IV. Tertium Quid
True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Trip To Nowhere
I was born in a backstreet
Where people live a dirty life
Of course it was different most of the time
But it was not my fault
A life in hell
I saw it every morning
Dreamsndesires
Cant hide myself anymore
I tried to live in heaven
But this dream did not come true
I tried to live in heaven
Next time Ill try to knock on this door again
Ive been hunting
Day and night
Oh, Ive been losing
Please, hold me tight
Why am I here now
And what can I do
You tell me youre sorry
You know it aint true
I tried to live in heaven
But this dream did not come true
I tried to live in heaven
Next time Ill try to knock on this door again
You know what I mean
cause when you throw in the cards
Life goes on and on
Youre on a trip to nowhere
Youd better reach for the stars
Life goes on and on and on and on again
cause when you throw in the cards
Life goes on and on
Youre on a trip to nowhere
Youd better reach for the stars
Life goes on and on and on and on again
Now Im taking my chances
Everyday, everynight
You know what Im talking about, man
No more backstreet life
A life in hell
I saw it every morning
Dreams and desires
Dont hide myself anymore
I tried to live in heaven
But this dream did not come true
I tried to live in heaven
Next time Ill try to knock on this door again
You know what I mean
cause when you throw in the cards
Life goes on and on
[...] Read more
song performed by U. D. O.
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sinful identity
It wasn’t the slightest in my hands to choose the
parents who had so handsomely procreated me; nor was
it my fault that the house in which I emitted my first
infantile cry; overflowed with unfathomable oceans of
glittering gold,
But it would irrefutably be the greatest sin if I
baselessly rejoiced and took all their hard-earned
wealth for granted; miserably dithered in my
impoverished life to carve a philanthropically
blissful identity of my very own….
It wasn’t the slightest in my hands to choose the
parents who had so majestically procreated me; nor was
it my fault that the house in which I emitted my
first baby cry; had an endless inundation of sparkling
currency coin,
But it would irrefutably be the greatest sin if I
parasitically feasted and took all their hard-earned
wealth for granted; pathetically staggered in my
diminutive life to carve a synergistically blazing
identity of my very own….
It wasn’t the slightest in my hands to choose the
parents who had so wonderfully procreated me; nor was
it my fault that the house in which I emitted my first
incoherent cry; remained perpetually embellished with
resplendently enamoring diamonds,
But it would irrefutably be the greatest sin if I
derogatorily marauded and took all their hard-earned
wealth for granted; dismally stuttered in my truncated
life to carve a celestially vibrant identity of my
very own…
It wasn’t the slightest in my hands to choose the
parents who had so marvelously procreated me; nor was
it my fault that the house in which I emitted my first
nimble cry; contained every speck of prosperity on
this timeless planet,
But it would irrefutably be the greatest sin if I
indiscriminately terrorized and took all their
hard-earned wealth for granted; meaninglessly quavered
in my destined life to carve a beautifully magnanimous
identity of my very own…..
It wasn’t the slightest in my hands to choose the
parents who had so amazingly procreated me; nor was it
my fault that the house in which I emitted my first
inaudible cry; had its foundations resting on an
insurmountable mountain of pearls,
But it would irrefutably be the greatest sin if I
savagely massacred and took all their hard-earned
[...] Read more
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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III. The Other Half-Rome
Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!
There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song: The House of Cards
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
and admire it's lavish facades.
The hearth's as transparent,
as the heart of young Faust,
in the beautiful house of cards.
And on the balcony suite, where all powers meet;
as made men they're known as goodfellas.
See the play of elites, who admit no defeats,
but display their true corporate colours.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
lest like glass it shatters to shards.
When you hold up a mirror,
they scatter like grouse,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Like fat cats in heat, or on hunting retreat,
at ranches, estates, gated villas.
All pall-bearers beat or quail at their feet,
as befits these natural born killers.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
protected by cameras and guards.
No-one 'scapes notice,
not even a mouse,
in the beautiful house of cards.
And on the mezzanine floor, they scrabble and squall,
to preen their fine hubris, unscissored.
And in congress they roar, they babble and bawl,
their small-minded rubrics like wizards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
the home of the brazen canards.
The cowboy and spouse,
in faux denim strauss,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Like insects they swarm, as a cold war gets warm,
or pick at the dead flesh like buzzards.
As the press runs to form, in the frat house and dorm,
and hazes the public as dullards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
[...] Read more
poem by David SmithWhite
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Johnny Cant Read
Johnny cant read
Football, baseball, basket ball games
Drinkin bear, kickin ass and takin down names
With the top down, get-a-round, shootin the line
Summer is here and johnnys feelin fine
But johnny cant read
Summer is over and hes gone to seed
Johnny cant read
He never learned nothin that hell ever need
Well, johnny can dance and johnny can love
Johnny can push and johnny can shove
Johnny can hang out; johnny can talk tough
Johnny can get down and johnny can throw up
But johnny cant read
Summer is over and hes gone to seed
(you know that), johnny cant read
He never learned nothin that hell ever need
Well, is it teachers fault? oh no!
Is it mommys fault? oh no!
Is it societys fault? oh no!
Well is it johnnys fault? ohhhhh nooooo!
Couple years later, johnnys on the run
Johnny got confused and he bought himself a gun
Well, he went and did something that he shouldnt
Oughta done
F.b.i. on his tail
Use a gun-go to jail
But johnny cant read
Summer is over and hes gone to seed
(you know that), johnny cant read
He never learned nothin that hell ever need
Well is is teachers fault? oh no
Is it mommies fault? oh no
Is it the presidents fault? oh no
Well is it johnnys fault? ohhhhh nooooo!
Johnny can dance and johnny can love
Johnny can push and johnny can shove
Johnny can pinball; johnny can talk tough
Johnny can get down and johnny can throw up
Well, recess is over
Recess is over!
Sitcoms, t.&a.
Johnnys mind is blown away
Cop shows, horror flicks
Johnnys brain is full of bricks
Rock show, video
Boob tube, rubiks cube
Game fools, sunday school
Gain fans(? ), gobble gangs(? )
Wonka wonka wonka
[...] Read more
song performed by Don Henley
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Borough. Letter X: Clubs And Social Meetings
YOU say you envy in your calm retreat
Our social Meetings;--'tis with joy we meet.
In these our parties you are pleased to find
Good sense and wit, with intercourse of mind;
Composed of men who read, reflect, and write,
Who, when they meet, must yield and share delight.
To you our Book-club has peculiar charm,
For which you sicken in your quiet farm;
Here you suppose us at our leisure placed,
Enjoying freedom, and displaying taste:
With wisdom cheerful, temperately gay,
Pleased to enjoy, and willing to display.
If thus your envy gives your ease its gloom,
Give wings to fancy, and among us come.
We're now assembled; you may soon attend -
I'll introduce you--'Gentlemen, my friend.'
'Now are you happy? you have pass'd a night
In gay discourse, and rational delight.'
'Alas! not so: for how can mortals think,
Or thoughts exchange, if thus they eat and drink?
No! I confess when we had fairly dined,
That was no time for intercourse of mind;
There was each dish prepared with skill t'invite,
And to detain the struggling appetite;
On such occasions minds with one consent
Are to the comforts of the body lent;
There was no pause--the wine went quickly round,
Till struggling Fancy was by Bacchus bound;
Wine is to wit as water thrown on fire,
By duly sprinkling both are raised the higher;
Thus largely dealt, the vivid blaze they choke,
And all the genial flame goes off in smoke.'
'But when no more your boards these loads
contain,
When wine no more o'erwhelms the labouring brain,
But serves, a gentle stimulus; we know
How wit must sparkle, and how fancy flow.'
It might be so, but no such club-days come;
We always find these dampers in the room:
If to converse were all that brought us here,
A few odd members would in turn appear;
Who, dwelling nigh, would saunter in and out,
O'erlook the list, and toss the books about;
Or yawning read them, walking up and down,
Just as the loungers in the shops in town;
Till fancying nothing would their minds amuse,
They'd push them by, and go in search of news.
But our attractions are a stronger sort,
The earliest dainties and the oldest port;
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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The Tower
SAILING TO BYZANTIUM
I
THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
-- Those dying generations -- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out Of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
WHAT shall I do with this absurdity --
O heart, O troubled heart -- this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible --
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,
[...] Read more
poem by William Butler Yeats
Added by Poetry Lover
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Buy Me A Condo
Gonna buy me a condo
Gonna buy me a cuisinart
Get a wall-to-wall carpeting
Get a wallet full o credit cards
I gonna buy me a condo, never have to mow de lawn
I gonna get me da t-shirt wit de alligator on
Wo, used to live in jamaica but I dont live dere no more
Had to change me lifestyle
Do tings I never done before
So now Im just a lonely rastaman
Living in dis american town
Gonna sell me bob marley records
Gonna get me some jackson browne
I gonna buy me a condo
Gonna buy me a cuisinart
Get a wall-to-wall carpeting
And get a wallet full o credit cards, eh
I gonna buy me a condo, never have to mow de lawn
I gonna get me da t-shirt wit de alligator on
Wo, gonna cut off me dreadlocks
Trow away all me ganja
Ill have a tupperware party
Maybe join me a health spa
Ill get a bowl of plastic fruits
And a microwave oven, too
Then Ill have the neighbors over for a weenie barbeque
Gonna buy me a condo
Gonna buy me a cuisinart
Get a wall-to-wall carpeting
Get a wallet full o credit cards, oh
I gonna buy me a condo, never have to mow de lawn
I get a funny little t-shirt wit de alligator on
Aint gonna work in de field no more
Gonna be amway distributor
Aint gonna work in de field no more (no, no)
Gonna be amway distributor
(ja) ja, ja, ja, life is so very hard
I need a (ja) ja, ja, ja jacuzi in me back yard
Oh, I gonna buy me a condo
Gonna buy me a cuisinart
Get a wall-to-wall carpeting
Get a wallet full o credit cards, eh
I gonna buy me a condo, never have to mow de lawn
I gonna get me da t-shirt wit de alligator on
Whatd you say?
I gonna buy me a condo
I gonna buy me a cuisinart
Get a wall-to-wall carpeting
Get a wallet full o credit cards, oh
I gonna buy me a condo, never have to mow de lawn
[...] Read more
song performed by Weird Al Yankovic
Added by Lucian Velea
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Two Birthday Card Greetings!
1)
Some birthday cards are humurous
With jokes that make you smile,
Others are cute, with kittens on,
Or cherubs that beguile.
Some have flowery greetings,
Some, sentimental verse.
Some poke fun at someone's age,
While others - well, they're worse!
But my favourite kind of card is one
That comes straight from the heart.
No wit or soppy message. Just -
Happy birthday, you old f...! ! ! !
2)
Some cards are huge and colourful,
With greetings bright and cheerful.
Others are sweet or touching
And can make you feel quite tearful.
There are funny cards with jokes in,
Enough to make you titter.
Home-made cards, pricey cards
And ones all covered in glitter.
Some can be rather age-ist,
Making fun out of getting old.
While others contain messages
That are worth much more than gold.
Some cards are sentimental,
The rhymes inside quite corny,
But not this one - it simply reads:
Happy Birthday, love from Dawnie
poem by Dawn Ferrett
Added by Poetry Lover
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II. Half-Rome
What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I'd meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd:
This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:
I'll tell you like a book and save your shins.
Fie, what a roaring day we've had! Whose fault?
Lorenzo in Lucina,—here's a church
To hold a crowd at need, accommodate
All comers from the Corso! If this crush
Make not its priests ashamed of what they show
For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse
And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out
The beggarly transept with its bit of apse
Into a decent space for Christian ease,
Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine.
Listen and estimate the luck they've had!
(The right man, and I hold him.)
Sir, do you see,
They laid both bodies in the church, this morn
The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,
Behind the little marble balustrade;
Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool
To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife
On the other side. In trying to count stabs,
People supposed Violante showed the most,
Till somebody explained us that mistake;
His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,
But she took all her stabbings in the face,
Since punished thus solely for honour's sake,
Honoris causâ, that's the proper term.
A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,
When you avenge your honour and only then,
That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,
Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.
It was Violante gave the first offence,
Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:
While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death
Answered the purpose, so his face went free.
We fancied even, free as you please, that face
Showed itself still intolerably wronged;
Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,
Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,
Once the worst ended: an indignant air
O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned
Round and away, rolled from Violante's side
Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.
If so, if corpses can be sensitive,
Why did not he roll right down altar-step,
Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,
Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fault
Why did I let you inside my life
How could I let you inside my body my soul my brain
Now I cant make you go away
You're driving me insane and inside outand#8230;
I can tell
Its meaningful and so hurtful
There's no place just to hide
I can tell you right now that this pain that I feel is not just inside of my mind
I can tell you right now that its physical and painful to be so vulnerable
This is my fault
Oh this is my fault
How could I lie to myself again
These bad decisions a never ending story
I think id know by now just how to bout to smile
You're driving me insane and inside outand#8230;because
Its meaningful and so hurtful
There's no place just to hide
I can tell you right now that this pain that I feel is not just inside of my mind
I can tell you right now that its physical and painful to be so vulnerable
I can tell you this pain is so unreal cant help but feel left all alone
I can tell you to listen to me when I say to you I know
This is my fault
Oh this is my fault
I know this is my fault [x4]
I can tell you right now that this pain that I feel is not just inside of my mind
I can tell you right now that its physical and painful to be so vulnerable
I can tell you this pain is so unreal cant help but feel left all alone
I can tell you to listen to me when I say to you I know
This is my fault
Oh this is my fault
song performed by Taproot from Welcome
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ice Man
From Cap de Hault to Frenchman's Lease
Lies seven miles of moving ice,
A lady comes there once or twice a year
To view that precipice.
The glacier, that tortuously
Grinds along that deep moraine
Is known to all as 'Adam's Fault',
And Eve despairs the bleak terrain.
Eve Grise de Mare du Montalban
The countess from her place of fame,
Who played coquettish with her fan
When first to Adam's Fault she came.
Gervase and I both courted Eve
But she played him, and then played me,
The contest was uneven, for
Gervase was old nobility.
We both enjoyed a hearty climb
And took our contest to the 'Fault',
Who first would conquer Frenchman's Lease
And reach the peak, should win it all;
The right to ask the lady's hand,
To claim the prize of her by right,
The loser, then, would quit the scene,
Would disappear him, overnight.
The day was cold, a storm was due,
We set out with our picks and rope,
The ice was clear as rippled glass
As we ascended up the slope.
We'd made three of the seven miles
Before the storm burst over us,
Gervase was slightly in the lead
But stopped beside the Fault to rest.
The glacier was close beside
When I pulled up to shelter, then
A crevice, fifteen metres wide
Had opened up, quite close to him.
Gervase half turned, the blinding sleet
Reduced our vision down to naught,
He sought direction with his feet
And pitched head first into the Fault.
The depth seemed bottomless, I heard
Eventually, a distant thud,
Gervase had hit the glacier floor
And I was certain he was dead.
The storm, in one short hour had flown,
[...] Read more
poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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