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More books, more racing and more foolishness with cars and motorcycles are in the works.

quote by Brock Yates
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Cars Are Cars

Words & music by paul simon 1983
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Similarly made. similarly sold
In a motorcade. abandoned when theyre old
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Engine in the front. jack in the back
Wheels take the brunt. pinion and a rack
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
But people are strangers
They change with the curve
From time zone to time zone
As we can observe
They shut down their borders
And think theyre immune
They stand on their differences
And shoot at the moon
But cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Drive em on the left. drive em on the right
Susceptible to theft in the middle of the night
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
I once had a car
That was more like a home
I lived in it, loved in it
Polished its chrome
If some of my homes
Had been more like my car
I probably wouldnt have
Travelled this far
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world

song performed by Paul Simon
Added by Lucian Velea
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First Book

OF writing many books there is no end;
And I who have written much in prose and verse
For others' uses, will write now for mine,–
Will write my story for my better self,
As when you paint your portrait for a friend,
Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it
Long after he has ceased to love you, just
To hold together what he was and is.

I, writing thus, am still what men call young;
I have not so far left the coasts of life
To travel inland, that I cannot hear
That murmur of the outer Infinite
Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep
When wondered at for smiling; not so far,
But still I catch my mother at her post
Beside the nursery-door, with finger up,
'Hush, hush–here's too much noise!' while her sweet eyes
Leap forward, taking part against her word
In the child's riot. Still I sit and feel
My father's slow hand, when she had left us both,
Stroke out my childish curls across his knee;
And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew
He liked it better than a better jest)
Inquire how many golden scudi went
To make such ringlets. O my father's hand,
Stroke the poor hair down, stroke it heavily,–
Draw, press the child's head closer to thy knee!
I'm still too young, too young to sit alone.

I write. My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me
When scarcely I was four years old; my life,
A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail;
She could not bear the joy of giving life–
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconciled and fraternised my soul
With the new order. As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,–
As restless as a nest-deserted bird
Grown chill through something being away, though what
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know
The way to rear up children, (to be just,)

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Revel In The Joy Of Books

Revel in the Joy of books

Revel in the joy of books
On the joy of get hooked
It’s an addiction that’s boredom proof
Indulge, it’s fun to revel in the joy of books

Take up a book and get hooked
Nothing’s wrong with getting hooked on the joy of books
Don’t’ be a fool change your outlook take up a book
Look into the joy of books

Revel in the joy of books
In monotony don’t remain stuck take a journey with a book
Find adventure and excitement in the joy of books
A book will certainly change your gloomy outlook

Take up a boot and leisurely get hooked
Books are enlightening just try reading
Free your imagination with a book allow it to roam freely
Shucks get with the program revel in the joy of books

Books they are boredom proof just revel in the joy of books.

Anthony S.Phillander©280112

Revel in the Joy of books

Revel in the joy of books
On the joy of get hooked
It’s an addiction that’s boredom proof
Indulge, it’s fun to revel in the joy of books

Take up a book and get hooked
Nothing’s wrong with getting hooked on the joy of books
Don’t’ be a fool change your outlook take up a book
Look into the joy of books

Revel in the joy of books
In monotony don’t remain stuck take a journey with a book
Find adventure and excitement in the joy of books
A book will certainly change your gloomy outlook

Take up a boot and leisurely get hooked

[...] Read more

poem by Anthony Shurland Phillander
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Tale XXI

The Learned Boy

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and

hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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She Works Hard For The Money

She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right

She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right

Onetta there in the corner stand
and wonders where she is and
it's strange to her
some people seem to have everything

Nine a.m. on the hour hand
and she's waiting for the bell
and she's looking real pretty
just wait for her clientele

She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right

She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right

Twenty five years have
come and gone
and she' seen a lot of tears
of the ones who come in
they really seem to need her there

It's a sacrifice working day to day
for little money just tips for pay
But it's worth it all
just to hear them say that they care

She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right

She already knows
she's seen her bad times
she already knows
these are the good times

[...] Read more

song performed by Donna Summer from The Donna Summer Anthology
Added by Lucian Velea
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Books

The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges

Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn

poem by Erica Jong
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Making Cars

They've bailed the automakers out...
But there's no one about,
To drive.

They've listened to them rant and shout...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
Or
To keep them alive.

And why...
Why now is gas so cheap?
When people can't afford it.
And why...
Why are they losing sleep?
When they're making cars that people can't keep!

They've bailed the automakers out...
But there's no one about,
To drive.

They've listened to them rant and shout...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
Or
To keep them alive.

And why...
Why now is gas so cheap?
When people can't afford it.
And why...
Why are they losing sleep?
When they're making cars that people can't keep!

Oh no!
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh?
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars for people....
But why...
Why now is gas so cheap?
When people can't afford it.
And why...
Why are they losing sleep?
When they're making cars that people can't keep!

Oh no!
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh?

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Santa-Fe Trail (A Humoresque)

I asked the old Negro, "What is that bird that sings so well?" He answered: "That is the Rachel-Jane." "Hasn't it another name, lark, or thrush, or the like?" "No. Jus' Rachel-Jane."

I. IN WHICH A RACING AUTO COMES FROM THE EAST

This is the order of the music of the morning: —
First, from the far East comes but a crooning.
The crooning turns to a sunrise singing.
Hark to the calm -horn, balm -horn, psalm -horn.
Hark to the faint -horn, quaint -horn, saint -horn. . . .

Hark to the pace -horn, chase -horn, race -horn.
And the holy veil of the dawn has gone.
Swiftly the brazen ear comes on.
It burns in the East as the sunrise burns.
I see great flashes where the far trail turns.

Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons.
It drinks gasoline from big red flagons.
Butting through the delicate mists of the morning,
It comes like lightning, goes past roaring.
It will hail all the wind-mills, taunting, ringing,
Dodge the cyclones,
Count the milestones,
On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills—
Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills. . . .
Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn,
Ho for the gay -horn, bark -horn, bay -horn.
Ho for Kansas, land that restores us
When houses choke us, and great books bore us!
Sunrise Kansas, harvester's Kansas,
A million men have found you before us.

II. IN WHICH MANY AUTOS PASS WESTWARD

I want live things in their pride to remain.
I will not kill one grasshopper vain
Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door.
I let him out, give him one chance more.
Perhaps, while he gnaws my hat in his whim,
Grasshopper lyrics occur to him.

I am a tramp by the long trail's border,
Given to squalor, rags and disorder.
I nap and amble and yawn and look,
Write fool-thoughts in my grubby book,
Recite to the children, explore at my ease,
Work when I work, beg when I please,
Give crank-drawings, that make folks stare

[...] Read more

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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The Interpretation of Nature and

I.

MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.


II.

Neither the naked hand nor the understanding left to itself can effect much. It is by instruments and helps that the work is done, which are as much wanted for the understanding as for the hand. And as the instruments of the hand either give motion or guide it, so the instruments of the mind supply either suggestions for the understanding or cautions.

III.

Human knowledge and human power meet in one; for where the cause is not known the effect cannot be produced. Nature to be commanded must be obeyed; and that which in contemplation is as the cause is in operation as the rule.

IV.

Towards the effecting of works, all that man can do is to put together or put asunder natural bodies. The rest is done by nature working within.

V.

The study of nature with a view to works is engaged in by the mechanic, the mathematician, the physician, the alchemist, and the magician; but by all (as things now are) with slight endeavour and scanty success.

VI.

It would be an unsound fancy and self-contradictory to expect that things which have never yet been done can be done except by means which have never yet been tried.

VII.

The productions of the mind and hand seem very numerous in books and manufactures. But all this variety lies in an exquisite subtlety and derivations from a few things already known; not in the number of axioms.

VIII.

Moreover the works already known are due to chance and experiment rather than to sciences; for the sciences we now possess are merely systems for the nice ordering and setting forth of things already invented; not methods of invention or directions for new works.

IX.

The cause and root of nearly all evils in the sciences is this -- that while we falsely admire and extol the powers of the human mind we neglect to seek for its true helps.

X.

The subtlety of nature is greater many times over than the subtlety of the senses and understanding; so that all those specious meditations, speculations, and glosses in which men indulge are quite from the purpose, only there is no one by to observe it.

XI.

As the sciences which we now have do not help us in finding out new works, so neither does the logic which we now have help us in finding out new sciences.

XII.

The logic now in use serves rather to fix and give stability to the errors which have their foundation in commonly received notions than to help the search after truth. So it does more harm than good.

XIII.

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Francis Bacon
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Idea Track

Dear Hugh Miller
Ive thought it through for a while but it doesnt get any easier
And three months on in this bad design wont make it feel any easier
Your grave, its your grave
Dear Hugh Miller
Its four months now from when we started and nothing feels much easier.
I sit and stare in a cork tiled room and it doesnt get much easier.
Your grave, its your grave
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (you dont try)
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (dont try)
Dear Hugh Miller,
its four months now from when we started and nothing feels much easier.
I sit and stare in a cork tiled room and it doesnt get much easier.
Your grave, its your grave
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (you dont try)
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (dont try)
Your grave, its your grave
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (you dont try)
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (dont try)
I dont care if I dont have an idea track, its an idea track, its an idea
I dont care if I dont have an idea track, its an idea track, its an idea
Your grave, its your grave.

song performed by Idlewild
Added by Lucian Velea
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Poor Paddy

[the pogues version]
-----------------------------------------
In eighteen hundred and forty-one
The corduroy breeches I put on
Me corduroy breeches I put on
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-two
From hartlepool I moved to crewe
Found myself a job to do
A working on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-three
I broke the shovel across me knee
I went to work for the company
On the leeds to selby railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-four
I landed on the liverpool shore
My belly was empty me hands were raw
With working on the railway, the railway
Im sick to my guts of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-five
When daniel oconnell he was alive
When daniel oconnell he was alive
And working on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-six
I changed my trade to carrying bricks
I changed my trade to carrying bricks
To work upon the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-seven
Poor paddy was thinking of going to heaven
The old bugger was thinking of going to heaven
To work upon the railway, the railway

[...] Read more

song performed by Pogues
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Faith And Works. A Tale.

Good Dan and Jane were man and wife,
And lived a loving kind of life.
One point, however, they disputed
And each by turns his mate confuted.
'Twas Faith and Works, this knotty question,
They found not easy of digestion.
While Dan for Faith alone contended,
Jane equally Good Works defended.
'They are not Christians, sure, but Turks,
Who build on Faith and scoff at Works,'
Quoth Jane; while eager Dan replied,
'By none but Heathens Faith's denied.
I'll tell you, wife,' one day quoth Dan,
'A story of a right good man:
A Patriarch sage, of ancient days,
A man of Faith whom all must praise;
In his own country he possess'd
Whate'er can make a wise man blest,
His was the flock, the field, the spring,
In short, a little rural king.
Yet pleas'd he quits his native land,
By Faith in the Divine command.
God bade him go; and he, content,
Went forth, not knowing where he went:
He trusted in the promise made,
And, undisputing, straight obey'd.
The heavenly word he did not doubt,
But proved his Faith by going out.'
Jane answer'd with some little pride:
'I've an example on my side;
And though my tale be somewhat longer,
I trust you'll find it vastly stronger.
I'll tell you, Daniel, of a man,
The holiest since the world began
Who now God's favour is receiving,
For prompt
obeying
, not believing.
One only son this man possess'd,
In whom his righteous age was blest;
And more to mark the grace of heaven
This son by miracle was given.
And from this child, the word Divine,
Had promised an illustrious line.
When lo! at once a voice he hears,
Which sounds like thunder in his ears!
God says, 'Go sacrifice thy son!'
'This moment, Lord, it shall be done.'
He goes, and instantly prepares,
To slay this child of many pray'rs,

[...] Read more

poem by Hannah More
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White Russian

(fish, steve rothery, mark kelly, pete trewavas, ian mosley)
Where do we go from here?
Where do we go from here, where do we go from here
Where do we go from here, where do we go from here
They boarded up the synagogues uzis on a street corner
You can't take a photograph of uzis on a street corner
The dj resigned today they wouldn't let him have his say
Surface scratched where the needles play, uzis on a street corner
Where do we go from here
Terror in rue de st. denis, murder on the periphery
Someone else in someone else's pocket, christ knows i don't know how to stop it
Poppies at the cenotaph, the cynics can't afford to laugh
I heard in on the telegraph there's uzis on a street corner
Where do we go from here, where do we go from here
The more i see, the more i hear, the more i find fewer answers
I close my mind, i shout it out but you know it's getting harder
To me calm down, to reason out, to come to terms with what it's all about
I'm uptight, can't sleep at night, i can't pretend everything's alright
My ideals, my sanity, they seem to be deserting me
But to stand up and fight i know we have six million reasons
They're burning down the synagogues uzis on a street corner
The heralds of the holocaust uzis on a street corner
The silence never louder than now, how quickly we forgot our vows
This resurrection we can't allow, uzis on a street corner
Where do we go from here, where do we go from here
We buy fresh bagels from the corner store
Where swastikas are spat from aerosols
I sit in the bar sipping iced white russian
Trying to score but nobody's pushing
And everyone looks at everyone's faces
Searching for signs and praying for traces of a conscience in residence
Are we sitting on a barbed wire fence
Racing the clouds home, racing the clouds home
We place our faith in human rights
In the paper wars that tie the red tape tight
I know that i would rather be out of this conspiracy
In the gulags and internment camps frozen faces in nameless ranks
I know that they would rather be standing here beside me
Racing the clouds home, racing the clouds home
You can shut your eyes, you can hide it away it's gonna come back another day
Racing the clouds home, are we racing the clouds home
Racing the clouds home

song performed by Marillion
Added by Lucian Velea
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Book Fifth-Books

WHEN Contemplation, like the night-calm felt
Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep
Into the soul its tranquillising power,
Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, O Man,
Earth's paramount Creature! not so much for woes
That thou endurest; heavy though that weight be,
Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light divine
Doth melt away; but for those palms achieved
Through length of time, by patient exercise
Of study and hard thought; there, there, it is
That sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto,
In progress through this Verse, my mind hath looked
Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven
As her prime teacher, intercourse with man
Established by the sovereign Intellect,
Who through that bodily image hath diffused,
As might appear to the eye of fleeting time,
A deathless spirit. Thou also, man! hast wrought,
For commerce of thy nature with herself,
Things that aspire to unconquerable life;
And yet we feel--we cannot choose but feel--
That they must perish. Tremblings of the heart
It gives, to think that our immortal being
No more shall need such garments; and yet man,
As long as he shall be the child of earth,
Might almost 'weep to have' what he may lose,
Nor be himself extinguished, but survive,
Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate.
A thought is with me sometimes, and I say,--
Should the whole frame of earth by inward throes
Be wrenched, or fire come down from far to scorch
Her pleasant habitations, and dry up
Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare,
Yet would the living Presence still subsist
Victorious, and composure would ensue,
And kindlings like the morning--presage sure
Of day returning and of life revived.
But all the meditations of mankind,
Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth
By reason built, or passion, which itself
Is highest reason in a soul sublime;
The consecrated works of Bard and Sage,
Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men,
Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes;
Where would they be? Oh! why hath not the Mind
Some element to stamp her image on
In nature somewhat nearer to her own?
Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad
Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail?

[...] Read more

poem by William Wordsworth
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The Prelude. (book V )

WHEN Contemplation, like the night-calm felt
Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep
Into the soul its tranquillising power,
Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, O Man,
Earth's paramount Creature! not so much for woes
That thou endurest; heavy though that weight be,
Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light divine
Doth melt away; but for those palms achieved
Through length of time, by patient exercise
Of study and hard thought; there, there, it is
That sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto,
In progress through this Verse, my mind hath looked
Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven
As her prime teacher, intercourse with man
Established by the sovereign Intellect,
Who through that bodily image hath diffused,
As might appear to the eye of fleeting time,
A deathless spirit. Thou also, man! hast wrought,
For commerce of thy nature with herself,
Things that aspire to unconquerable life;
And yet we feel--we cannot choose but feel--
That they must perish. Tremblings of the heart
It gives, to think that our immortal being
No more shall need such garments; and yet man,
As long as he shall be the child of earth,
Might almost "weep to have" what he may lose,
Nor be himself extinguished, but survive,
Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate.
A thought is with me sometimes, and I say,--
Should the whole frame of earth by inward throes
Be wrenched, or fire come down from far to scorch
Her pleasant habitations, and dry up
Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare,
Yet would the living Presence still subsist
Victorious, and composure would ensue,
And kindlings like the morning--presage sure
Of day returning and of life revived.
But all the meditations of mankind,
Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth
By reason built, or passion, which itself
Is highest reason in a soul sublime;
The consecrated works of Bard and Sage,
Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men,
Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes;
Where would they be? Oh! why hath not the Mind
Some element to stamp her image on
In nature somewhat nearer to her own?
Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad
Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail?

[...] Read more

poem by William Wordsworth
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A Fable For Critics

Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.'

Now, Daphne-before she was happily treeified-
Over all other blossoms the lily had deified,
And when she expected the god on a visit
('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit),
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care,
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair,
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses,
Like the day breaking through, the long night of her tresses;
So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible,
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable,
Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel),-
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,
As I shall at the--, when they cut up my book in it.

Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,

[...] Read more

poem by James Russell Lowell
Added by Poetry Lover
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Second Hand Books

Books! Books! Books! There are so many different designs.
There are some which, by the author, are personally signed.
Some books have pages with gilt edges, which look all posh.
Some have nice pictures on their covers, which are embossed.

Some books have hard covers, while some have soft.
Some are all dusty, where they’ve been kept in the loft.
Some books have fancy covers; some just have plain.
Some have suffered mishaps, and are now all stained.

Some books are all dog-eared at the corners of their pages.
Some have gone yellow, where they’ve been around ages.
Inside some books, there can be seen a pencilled name;
Someone, who once, on this particular book, had a claim.

Some are obviously well read; their spines are all creased.
From out of a book, amazing adventures can be unleashed.
Some books have pages which are spoiled or a bit torn.
Some have covers which are grubby and look well worn.

Some just have text, while others also include illustrations.
Some are former prize winners; once the toast of the nation.
There are books by famous authors, as well as the lesser known.
Some are former library books which, to the public, were loaned.

There are romances, poetry, classics, sci-fi, humour, and histories;
Gardening, cookery, travel, thrillers, manga, and murder mysteries.
In wooden bookcases, the books are categorised, and are neatly lined.
In a second hand bookshop, you just never know what you may find.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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Long Walk

I need a long walk, with someone who knows what to do
I need a long talk, I need a helping hand to pull me through
I need a tall drink, with somebody who cares, I need someone here for company
Its time to rethink and somehow find a way to put an end to this mystery
See I dont know, the pain wont go
And the hurt inside is getting so damn hard to hide
So now I pay the price, I wonder how much its gonna take
Ive gotta roll the dice, and try to take all this heartache
But I still dont know, the pain wont go
And the hurt inside is getting so damn hard to hide
I gotta work it out, cause my heart is still racing, racing away
Work it out, cause my heart is still breaking, hey
So now Ill take this long walk, I dont want anybody listenin
cause I really wanna pour it out, and all went out without ever giving in
But I still dont know, the pain wont go
Im still hurting inside and its so damn hard to hide
You gotta help me work it out, cause my heart is still racing, racing away
Work it out, cause my heart, my heart is breaking away
Ive gotta work this out, cause my heart is still racing away
Yeah, work it out, cause my heart, its so much a part of me
Work it out - gotta work it out
My heart is still racing - and Im wasting away
Work it out - Ive gotta work it out...

song performed by Bad Company
Added by Lucian Velea
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Skull Ring

(feat. The Stooges)
Skull rings
Fast cars
Hot chicks
Money
Skull rings
Fast cars
Hot chicks
Fancy things
The touch of a hand in the wasteland
you're walking asleep and dreaming cheap
A bird's wing don't beat for free
You're freezing cold and your family
Skull rings
Fast cars
Hot chicks
Money
Skull rings
Fast cars
Hot chicks
Fancy things
Fingers on fire to do what's bad
Ring on the finger is a skull man
Strong as a bar of steel
Weakness is that you can't feel
Skull rings
Fast cars
Hot chicks
Money
Skull rings
Fast cars
Hot chicks
Fancy things
My life is dirtied, my mind is loaded
I'm feeling and breathing and fighting
To see
People get ready now
Baby come on give your heart to me
Skull rings
Fast cars
Hot chicks
Money
Skull rings
Fast cars
Hot chicks
Fancy things

song performed by Iggy Pop
Added by Lucian Velea
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GM Battle Earth Began In Eden

In Eden choices
between good evil
were desire made.

What fruit would you eat?
What choices will you make?
What life path decision walk?

Your actions carry implications
decisions have consequences
nature has laws as do societies;

when spoken written codes
of honour are foolish broken
fickle souls become cast outs.

Will you reap benefits
of your labour solid planted?
Will you curse this earth
despoil ground giving life?

Paradise waits in our hands
paradise is ours for taking.
Technology science wisdom frees
wise nations from animal labours.

Some corporations military nations
would rather dominate oil markets.
Spend waste their youth resources
seizing guarding oilfields pipelines.

General Motors Chevron greed lies
kills promise clean green electric cars;
to pump up huge greed oil profits
shredding technology enriching lives.

Japanese fuel economy hybrid cars
dominates resource saving efficiencies;
out distances American gas guzzling cars
while America reaps greenhouse storms.

Wise nations will embrace clean energies
while greed chokes on green house gases;
wind solar power rises eastern economies
China Japan Korea make wise electric cars.

Cry for American exploited poor stolen wages
oil companies sucked dry at life draining gas pumps;
weep blue American ice homes winter chill heat costs;
blessing stripped no free solar energy roof tiles.

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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