Comedians are really writers who don't have pens and pencils about them, but they riff.
quote by Carl Reiner
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We The Cats
And the time is right
And tonight's the night
Alreed-alright
Come on, old man, come on
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like gi's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep i'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like gi's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep i'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like gi's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep i'll betcha
Skibble-de-dooba
Skibble-de-boy-boy
Skibble-de-reeba
This righteous, this righteous riff
song performed by Joe Jackson
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Also see the following:
- quotes about seasons
- quotes about dance
- quotes about height
- quotes about boys
- quotes about peace
- quotes about elders
- quotes about men
- quotes about time
We The Cats (Shall Hep Ya)
(words and music by Cab Calloway and Jack Palmer)
And the time is right
And tonight's the night
Alreed-alright
Come on, old man, come on
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like GI's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep I'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like GI's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep I'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
(instrumnetal break)
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like GI's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep I'll betcha
Skibble-de-dooba
Skibble-de-boy-boy
Skibble-de-reeba
This righteous, this righteous riff
song performed by Joe Jackson
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Mrs.Robinson
And here's to
CHORUS 1:
|| G | Em | G | Em |
you, Mrs Robinson Jesus loves you more than you will
| C C/B | C/A C/G | D D/C | D/B D/A |
know Wo wo wo God bless you
| G | Em | G | Em |
please, Mrs Robinson Heaven holds a place for those who
| C C/B | C/A C/G | D D/C | D/B D/A |
pray Hey hey hey Hey hey
Riff #1................ Riff #1................
| E7 | | | ||
hey
VERSE 2: (use Riff #4b instead of Riff #4a)
We'd like to know
A little bit about you
For our files.
We'd like to help you learn
To help yourself.
Look around you, all you see are
Sympathetic eyes.
Stroll around the grounds
Until you feel at home.
CHORUS 2: (as before)
And here's to you,
Mrs Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Wo wo wo
God bless you please,
Mrs Robinson,
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey hey hey,
Hey hey hey.
VERSE 3: (use Riff #4b)
Hide it in a hiding place
Where no one ever goes.
Put it in you pantry with your cupcakes.
It's a little secret,
Just the Robinsons' affair.
Most of all, you've got to
Hide it from the kids.
CHORUS 3: (as before)
Coo coo ca-choo,
Mrs Robinson,
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Wo wo wo.
God bless you please,
Mrs Robinson,
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey hey hey,
[...] Read more
song performed by Paul Simon
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Big Riff And Mando
Marty loved the sound of the stolen mandolin.
Somebody took it on a dare in the night-time.
Run up to the radio, calling out to the wind.
Now, bring it, bring it back at least an hour before flight time.
It was a souvenir, but it was a right arm missing.
Swap a woodwork rhythm for a humbucking top line.
Big Riff, rough boy, wants to be a singer in a band.
A little slow in the brain box, but he had a quick right hand.
Run left, run right -- everywhere he look --
nobody watching, no, but that was all he took last night.
Running on the power of a stolen mandolin.
Steal a little inspiration. Steal a little muscle.
Will he wake in the morning, wondering -- was it really worth it?
So make a little deal, Yeah, make a little hustle.
Ringing on the radio -- got a proposition for those English boys.
I'll make the sing-song -- you can make the background noise.
One, two, three, four -- one bar and in.
Give you back the mando, if you'll let this singer sing tonight.
Marty loved the sound of the stolen mandolin.
Big Riff took it on a dare in the night-time.
Now it's four o'clock, and we're waiting at the sound-check.
Looking for a face staring in from the sunshine.
We got two strong lawmen from the sheriff's office.
They're going to lift Big Riff before he plays the first line.
Big Riff, rough boy, wants to be a singer in a band.
Yeah, help him on the stage now, put the microphone in his hand.
Think hard. Think right -- nothing in his mind --
So Riff did a runner, but he left the mandolin behind
song performed by Jethro Tull
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Big Riff & Mando
Marty loved the sound of the stolen mandolin.
Somebody took it on a dare in the night-time.
Run up to the radio, calling out to the wind.
Now, bring it, bring it back at least an hour before flight time.
It was a souvenir, but it was a right arm missing.
Swap a woodwork rhythm for a humbucking top line.
Big riff, rough boy, wants to be a singer in a band.
A little slow in the brain box, but he had a quick right hand.
Run left, run right --- everywhere he look ---
Nobody watching, no, but that was
All he took last night.
Running on the power of a stolen mandolin.
Steal a little inspiration. steal a little muscle.
Will he wake in the morning, wondering --- was it really worth it?
So make a little deal, yeah, make a little hustle.
Ringing on the radio --- got a proposition for those english boys.
Ill make the sing-song --- you can make the background noise.
One, two, three, four --- one bar and in.
Give you back the mando, if youll let this singer sing tonight.
Marty loved the sound of the stolen mandolin.
Big riff took it on a dare in the night-time.
Now its four oclock, and were waiting at the sound-check.
Looking for a face staring in from the sunshine.
We got two strong lawmen from the sheriffs office.
Theyre going to lift big riff before he plays the first line.
Big riff, rough boy, wants to be a singer in a band.
Yeah, help him on the stage now, put that microphone in his hand.
Think hard, think right --- nothing in his mind ---
So riff did a runner, but he left the mandolin behind.
song performed by Jethro Tull
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Four Main Types of Writers (personal opinion)
The Lonely Writer
Some writings tell me
This person is lonely
And is reaching out
For the touch of a friendly comment
These writers are sad, solitary,
Isolated, but good persons
And quite often very good writers
The needy juvenile writer
Some writings contain words
Or language meant to shock
And to offend.
These writers are lonely also
But in a different way.
These writers are simply saying
Like a little child
“hey! I exist! Someone better
Acknowledge me! ”
These writers can often write well
But usually don’t, can’t, or choose not to
The Spite Writer
This writer can be of either gender
But seems to be in a female majority
They’ve been spurned or rejected
Two-timed or lied to.
And they are going to vent their ire
In the most public way they can.
These writers can also be very good writers
But too often let their anger get in the way.
The Religious Writer
These writers show people passionate
And zealously devoted to singing the praises
Of the Lord and goodness and charity.
They’re probably austere, honest people
Who almost always write very well.
For the most part these writers seem
To want to spread the word and
At the same time tend to be rather singular
In the subject matter of their writings,
Rarely attempting other genres.
poem by David Whalen
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Writer's Drought
You've heard of a thing called writer's block and you've heard of writer's drought
But writers are never short of things on which they can write about
It's just at times their inspiration well does seem to run dry
And they cannot seem to pen a line though hard enough they try.
The writers drought it causes writers moments of self doubt
Till the words that seem locked in them eventually flow out
Through their pens to their notebooks their dry spells do not last
And on time lost out on penning words they seem to catch up fast.
Some writers in their writing drought cannot seem to feel inspired
To write even a single line they feel mentally tired
But when fresh inspiration comes to them much better stuff they do write
And feeling re-invigorated they sit and pen all night.
Most writers you will talk to of writers drought can tell
When there is no inspiration in their inspiration well
But when inspiration returns to them and their creative juices flow
They become much better writers and in self confidence grow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Riff Raff
See it on television every day
Hear it on the radio
It ain't humid but it sure is hot
Down in Mexico
Boss man tryin' to tell me
Beginnin' of the end
Sayin' it'll bend me
Too late my friend
Riff raff
It's good for a laugh
Riff raff
Laugh yourself in half
Now I'm the kind of guy that keeps his big mouth shut
It don't bother me
Somebody kickin' me when I'm up
Leaves me in misery
I never shot nobody
Don't even carry a gun
I ain't doin' nothin' wrong
I'm just havin' fun
Riff raff
It's good for a laugh
Riff raff
Laugh yourself in half
song performed by AC/DC from Powerage
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Easy Skanking
Easy skanking (skankin it easy);
Easy skanking (skankin it slow);
Easy skanking (skankin it easy);
Easy skanking (skankin it slow).
Excuse me while I light my spliff; (spliff)
Good god, I gotta take a lift: (lift)
From reality I just cant drift; (drift)
Thats why I am staying with this riff. (riff)
Take it easy (easy skankin);
Lord, I take it easy! (easy skankin);
Take it easy (easy skankin);
Got to take it easy (easy skankin).
See: were takin it easy (ooh-wah-da da-da)
We taking it slow, (ooh-wah-da da-da)
Takin it easy (easy);
Got to take it slow (slow-slow)
So take it easy (easy skankin - da-da-da-da-da-da)
Wo-oh, take it easy (easy skankin)
Take it easy (easy skankin - da-da-da-da-da-da)
Take it easy. (easy skankin)
Excuse me while I light my spliff; (spliff)
Oh, god, I gotta take a lift: (lift)
From reality I just cant drift; (drift)
Thats why I am staying with this riff. (riff)
Take it easy (takin it easy);
Got to take it easy (takin it slow);
Take it easy (takin it easy);
Skanky, take it easy (takin it slow).
Tell you what:
Herb for my wine; (ooh-wa-da-da-da)
Honey for my strong drink; (ooh-wa-da-da-da)
Herb for my wine; (ooh-wa-da-da-da)
Honey for my strong drink.
I shake it easy (takin it easy);
Skanky, take it easy (skankin it slow);
Take it (takin it easy) easy;
Take it (skankin it slow) easy;
Take it easy (takin it easy);
Oh-oh-ooh! (skankin it slow);
Little bit easier (takin it easy);
Skanky, take it easy (skankin it slow).
Take it easy! take it easy! take it easy! /fadeout/
song performed by Bob Marley
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Most Writers
Most writers 'twould seem have moments of self doubt
But they never go short of things to write about
And to become a top writer of one a big ask
And to succeed as a writer for many seems too daunting a task.
Most writers do not write for wealth or for fame
And despite lack of success they pen on just the same
For every one hundred thousand writers perhaps one writing millionaire
Amongst the ranks of the wealthy the writers are rare.
Few writers can hope for to scale success height
For the love of writing they only do write
Few writers get published and fewer know of success
But in their writings on paper their thoughts they express.
Most writers will never know wealth and renown
And they are not even well known in their own Hometown
They never will be known beyond their home shore
They write for the love of it and little more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Halsted Street Car
Come you, cartoonists,
Hang on a strap with me here
At seven o’clock in the morning
On a Halsted street car.
Take your pencils
And draw these faces.
Try with your pencils for these crooked faces,
That pig-sticker in one corner—his mouth—
That overall factory girl—her loose cheeks.
Find for your pencils
A way to mark your memory
Of tired empty faces.
After their night’s sleep,
In the moist dawn
And cool daybreak,
Faces
Tired of wishes,
Empty of dreams.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Pretty Paper (feat. Willie Nelson)
Kenny Chesney & Willie Nelson
Chorus:
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Wrap your presents to your darling from you
Pretty pencils to write I love you
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue.
Crowded street, busy feet, hustle by him
Downtown shoppers, Christmas is nigh
There he sits all alone on the sidewalk
Hoping that you won't pass him by.
Should you stop? Better not, much too busy
You'd better hurry, my how time does fly
And in the distance the ringing of laughter
And in the midst of the laughter he cries.
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Wrap your presents to your darling from you
Pretty pencils to write I love you
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue.
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Wrap your presents to your darling from you
Pretty pencils to write I love you
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue.
Oooh, pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue...
song performed by Kenny Chesney
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It's also that comedians don't have the kind of narcissism that actors have. They're writers who perform their own material. It's more interesting. And they're sexy because they risk more. Stand-up comedians risk more than anyone.
quote by Rachel Weisz
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Piety: Or, The Vision
'Twas when the night in silent sable fled,
When chearful morning sprung with rising red,
When dreams and vapours leave to crowd the brain,
And best the Vision draws its heav'nly scene;
'Twas then, as slumb'ring on my couch I lay,
A sudden splendor seem'd to kindle day,
A breeze came breathing in a sweet perfume,
Blown from eternal gardens, fill'd the room;
And in a void of blue, that clouds invest,
Appear'd a daughter of the realms of rest;
Her head a ring of golden glory wore,
Her honour'd hand the sacred volume bore,
Her rayment glitt'ring seem'd a silver white,
And all her sweet companions sons of light.
Strait as I gaz'd my fear and wonder grew,
Fear barr'd my voice, and wonder fix'd my view,
When lo! a cherub of the shining crowd
That sail'd as guardians in her azure cloud,
Fann'd the soft air and downward seem'd to glide,
And to my lips a living coal applied;
Then while the warmth on all my pulses ran,
Diffusing comfort, thus the maid began.
‘Where glorious mansions are prepar'd above,
‘The seats of Music, and the seats of Love,
‘Thence I descend, and piety my name,
‘To warm thy bosom with celestial flame,
‘To teach thee praises mix'd with humble pray'rs,
‘And tune thy soul to sing seraphic airs;
‘Be thou my bard.’ A vial here she caught,
(An angel's hand the chrystal vial brought)
And as with awful sound the word was said,
She pour'd a sacred unction on my head,
Then thus proceeded. ‘Be thy muse thy zeal,
‘Dare to be good, and all my joys reveal;
‘While other pencils flatt'ring forms create,
‘And paint the gawdy plumes that deck the great;
‘While other pens exalt the vain delight,
‘Whose wasteful revel wakes the depth of night;
‘Or others softly sing in idle lines,
‘How Damon courts, or Amaryllis shines;
‘More wisely thou select a theme divine;
‘'Tis Fame's their recompence, 'tis Heav'n is thine.
‘Despise the fervours of unhallow'd fire,
‘Where wine, or passion, or applause inspire,
‘Low restless life, and ravings born of earth,
‘Whose meaner subjects speak their humble birth;
‘Like working seas, that when loud Winters blow,
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Caricatures
There are writers great and writers small
And writers on the spree;
And writers short and writers tall,
And bards of low degree.
There are artists small and artist great,
With lines both bold and free –
It takes a Low to illustrate
Us bards of low degree.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Truth can Hurt
The truth can hurt
Some writers write infrequently
and others write prolifically.
What matters is the quality
much more so than the quantity.
Good writers by their words display
their thoughts in a coherent way
Describing things they have observed
and garner praise that’s well deserved.
But some think anything will do
and they pay no attention to
the rules successful writers use
they will not learn: point blank refuse
to accept well meant critique.
They much prefer dishonest praise
from so called friends afraid
to speak the simple truth lest they dismay
their friend by speaking honestly.
So naturally they take offence
when other people criticise
that which seems perfect in their eyes.
True writers take this in their stride
they know their work is not perfect.
But what they know is they have tried
and that is all you can expect.
New writers lack experience
but everyone must start some where.
The wise ones do not take offence
when other people show they care
enough to offer some advice.
Because they can remember when
they too were just a new novice
to painting pictures with their pen.
27 feb 08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Essay on Psychiatrists
I. Invocation
It‘s crazy to think one could describe them—
Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eves and ears—
As though they were all alike any more
Than sweeps, opticians, poets or masseurs.
Moreover, they are for more than one reason
Difficult to speak of seriously and freely,
And I have never (even this is difficult to say
Plainly, without foolishness or irony)
Consulted one for professional help, though it happens
Many or most of my friends have—and that,
Perhaps, is why it seems urgent to try to speak
Sensibly about them, about the psychiatrists.
II. Some Terms
“Shrink” is a misnomer. The religious
Analogy is all wrong, too, and the old,
Half-forgotten jokes about Viennese accents
And beards hardly apply to the good-looking woman
In boots and a knit dress, or the man
Seen buying the Sunday Times in mutton-chop
Whiskers and expensive running shoes.
In a way I suspect that even the terms “doctor”
And “therapist” are misnomers; the patient
Is not necessarily “sick.” And one assumes
That no small part of the psychiatrist’s
Role is just that: to point out misnomers.
III. Proposition
These are the first citizens of contingency.
Far from the doctrinaire past of the old ones,
They think in their prudent meditations
Not about ecstasy (the soul leaving the body)
Nor enthusiasm (the god entering one’s person)
Nor even about sanity (which means
Health, an impossible perfection)
But ponder instead relative truth and the warm
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Pinsky
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An Essay On The Different Stiles Of Poetry
To Henry, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke.
I hate the Vulgar with untuneful Mind,
Hearts uninspir'd, and Senses unrefin'd.
Hence ye Prophane, I raise the sounding String,
And Bolingbroke descends to hear me sing.
When Greece cou'd Truth in Mystick Fable shroud,
And with Delight instruct the list'ning Crowd,
An ancient Poet (Time has lost his Name)
Deliver'd Strains on Verse to future Fame.
Still as he sung he touch'd the trembling Lyre,
And felt the Notes a rising Warmth inspire.
Ye sweet'ning Graces in the Musick Throng,
Assist my Genius, and retrieve the Song
From dark Oblivion. See, my Genius goes
To call it forth. 'Twas thus the Poem rose.
Wit is the Muses Horse, and bears on high
The daring Rider to the Muses Sky:
Who, while his strength to mount aloft he tries,
By Regions varying in their Nature, flies.
At first he riseth o'er a Land of Toil,
A barren, hard, and undeserving Soil,
Where only Weeds from heavy Labour grow,
Which yet the Nation prune, and keep for show.
Where Couplets jingling on their Accent run,
Whose point of Epigram is sunk to Pun.
Where Wings by Fancy never feather'd fly,
Where Lines by measure form'd in Hatchets lie;
Where Altars stand, erected Porches gape,
And Sense is cramp'd while Words are par'd to shape;
Where mean Acrosticks labour'd in a Frame,
On scatter'd Letters raise a painful Scheme;
And by Confinement in their Work controul
The great Enlargings of the boundless Soul.
Where if a Warriour's elevated Fire
Wou'd all the brightest Strokes of Verse require,
Then streight in Anagram a wretched Crew
Will pay their undeserving Praises too;
While on the rack his poor disjointed Name
Must tell its Master's Character to Fame.
And (if my Fire and Fears aright presage)
The lab'ring Writers of a future Age
Shall clear new ground, and Grotts and Caves repair,
To civilize the babbling Ecchoes there.
Then while a Lover treads a lonely Walk,
His Voice shall with its own Reflection talk,
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
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The Plot
My class were all slow payers,
And they weren't the best of stayers
When they came along to evening classes
Straight from keeping shop,
So I'd try to entertain them
Though I knew I'd rather brain them,
All I wanted was some input
When their heads began to drop.
'Come on guys and girls, get with it, '
I would clap my hands, 'let's live it! '
'Give me three basic ingredients
You need to build a plot! '
'A beginning, ' said one joker,
'...and an end....' - (I thought I'd choke her!)
But I couldn't get a 'middle' from them,
That was all they'd got!
'You told me you were writers
That you burn the midnight light as
Other people lie there sleeping
While you wield your mighty pens.
You've got 'character' and 'colour'
As you like to tell each other,
But without a plot you haven't got
A story for your friends.'
'All you've given me - Moon Bayers,
And a host of Vampire Slayers
And some Super Hero wielding powers
Not you, nor I have got,
And a princess who's a virgin
With some hanger on, an urchin,
Come on folks! - there's not a virgin
Over fifteen worth a drop! '
'What we need are real people,
Keep it real and keep it simple
From the hair down to the dimple
(That you shouldn't know she's got!)
Use the guy who drives the tanker,
Or the fat and balding Banker
Who's been betting on the Gee Gee's
And is skimming off the top.'
'Or the girl there, in the city
Who's naive, but very pretty
When she meets the married businessman
Who takes her out to lunch,
Then invites her back for 'drinkies'
[...] Read more
poem by David Lewis Paget
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666 Third examples
666 third examples
666 Third examples
The gamer
in the middle of the warehouse sits the gamer he is paid in advance for several years of time advance he plays each game until the game ender button is revealed and then he cheats of course he wins all the games he plays them all day long never tiring never missing a pinball wizard he loves to play them all the lyrics to songs run into the words for my poem seems ok to hum a battle song he whistles in his little crucible cubicle we listened one day and it was dixie the next day it was the battle hymn of the republic he is confedarate one day the yankee spy the next he plays the games no one else will buy he plays them free online he pays us for the signal space the switch boxes gives him love and grace the number of his name the 666 replaces what he needs his body looks so thin but the gamer has no time to eat he must play and download games
the student slash writer
get it what a joke ahha
student/writer
the person has the curly que ball hair he sits and stares in space is paid but only for the one day at a time he sits and stares until he gets ideas from space and time then double spaces all the work has to be in black government ink they still dont like the computor generation homework some teachers still make them student/writers write the homework out by hand on old timey notebook paper three hole binding in the notebook is an actual plastic looking thing with folders pens holding ink and pencils with the number two allowed them the online look ups but not the cheating styles.
The pornographer sits near the end on the Cee ell the Ex ell is my inital investment included no exposure to the elements no censure or sensorchips allowed no filters of any kind let love rule the day on my watch is mickeys minnie mouse here is what his computor might say to him CLICK too many clicks and the more he clicks the more he wishes and wants he needs exhaust fumes in this small breathable space let go of the mouse you idiot while the pornographer still clicks too many clicks we turned off his moniter long ago to give his privacy a blessing from the 666 we do not care what he is looking at or doing there as long as we get paid the money to keep the overhead paid and all of us in online need there were three unpaid homeless users also here today. This warehouse needs to be more work done but all of us are still online and having fun with 666 work is the last option.
poem by Charles Hice
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