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I'm not here for your amusement. You're here for mine.

quote by Johnny Rotten
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Amusement Parks, U. S. A.

Lets take your car and to amusement parks usa
At palisades in salisbury parks the rolly coasters are flyin
At euclid beach on the flying turns Ill bet you cant keep her smilin
Buy your girl a cotton candy while youre down on the ground
Then take her on the twirl-a-way and spin her around
Lets take your car and mess around at the park all day
The parachutes at riverview park will shake us up all day
And disneyland and p.o.p. is worth a trip to l.a.
Watchin girls in the air can really get you bad
And Ill bet the laughin lady makes you laugh like mad
Lets pick up our friends and do amusement parks usa
[spoken, supposedly by beach boys session drummer hal blaine]
Hurry, hurry, hurry folks step right up to the beach boy circus.
The best little show in town.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, its only a dime folks, one thin dime, just one tenth of a dollar.
Come on in and see stella the snake dancer (is it real? )
She walks, she talks, she wiggles on her belly like a snake.
(she looks like afake to me) (lets go see her) (it costs too much)
Hurry, hurry, hurry folks, come on and see stella.
She shimmies, she shakes....
Youll crash and burn in the bumper cars at jerseys steel pier
Youll crack em up when you stand in front of all the crazy mirrors
At first youll be a chicken at the jackhammer ride
But youll do it with a girl sittin right by your side
Lets take your car and mess around at the park all day

song performed by Beach Boys
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Pinball Wizard

Local lad:
Ever since I was a young boy,
Ive played the silver ball.
Ever since I was a young boy,
>from soho down to brighton
Ive played the silver ball.
I must have played them all.
]from soho down to brighton
But I aint seen nothing like him
I must have played them all.
In any amusement hall...
But I aint seen nothing like him
That deaf dumb and blind kid
In any amusement hall...
Sure plays a mean pin ball !
That deaf dumb and blind kid
Sure plays a mean pin ball !
He stands like a statue,
Becomes part of the machine.
He stands like a statue,
Feeling all the bumpers
Becomes part of the machine.
Always playing clean.
Feeling all the bumpers
He plays by intuition,
Always playing clean.
The digit counters fall.
He plays by intuition,
That deaf dumb and blind kid
The digit counters fall.
Sure plays a mean pin ball !
That deaf dumb and blind kid
Sure plays a mean pin ball !
Hes a pin ball wizard
There has got to be a twist.
Hes a pin ball wizard
A pin ball wizard,
There has got to be a twist.
Sgot such a supple wrist.
A pin ball wizard,
Sgot such a supple wrist.
how do you think he does it? I dont know!
What makes him so good?
how do you think he does it? I dont know!
What makes him so good?
He aint got no distractions
Cant hear those buzzers and bells,
He aint got no distractions
Dont see lights a flashin
Cant hear those buzzers and bells,

[...] Read more

song performed by Who
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Canto the First

I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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I would rather write for the instruction, or even the amusement of the poor than for the amusement of the rich.

quote by Frederick Marryat
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Two beautiful stars

As shiny and glittery as ever,
The clouds try to cover,
But the luminous penetrates always,
The moon passes in amusement,
Such light i have never seen,
Like two roses in the grass field,
You and me in the merciless world,
How wonderful and bright we are,
The two little stars

Where is the sun my love,
Do we really need it darling,
Our love an example of light,
In the night we shine so bright,
You, me, two little beautiful stars

The world sees in amusement,
The light sparkling from above,
The beams of grace and chastity,
Who else can it be,
The two beautiful stars,
You and me my love

poem by Gaylord Munemo
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Tale V

THE PATRON.

A Borough-Bailiff, who to law was train'd,
A wife and sons in decent state maintain'd,
He had his way in life's rough ocean steer'd
And many a rock and coast of danger clear'd;
He saw where others fail'd, and care had he,
Others in him should not such feelings see:
His sons in various busy states were placed,
And all began the sweets of gain to taste,
Save John, the younger, who, of sprightly parts,
Felt not a love for money-making arts:
In childhood feeble, he, for country air,
Had long resided with a rustic pair;
All round whose room were doleful ballads, songs,
Of lovers' sufferings and of ladies' wrongs;
Of peevish ghosts who came at dark midnight,
For breach of promise, guilty men to fright;
Love, marriage, murder, were the themes, with

these,
All that on idle, ardent spirits seize;
Robbers at land and pirates on the main,
Enchanters foil'd, spells broken, giants slain;
Legends of love, with tales of halls and bowers,
Choice of rare songs, and garlands of choice

flowers,
And all the hungry mind without a choice devours.
From village-children kept apart by pride,
With such enjoyments, and without a guide,
Inspired by feelings all such works infused,
John snatch'd a pen, and wrote as he perused:
With the like fancy he could make his knight
Slay half a host, and put the rest to flight;
With the like knowledge he could make him ride
From isle to isle at Parthenissa's side;
And with a heart yet free, no busy brain
Form'd wilder notions of delight and pain,
The raptures smiles create, the anguish of disdain.
Such were the fruits of John's poetic toil -
Weeds, but still proofs of vigour in the soil:
He nothing purposed but with vast delight,
Let Fancy loose, and wonder'd at her flight:
His notions of poetic worth were high,
And of his own still-hoarded poetry; -
These to his father's house he bore with pride,
A miser's treasure, in his room to hide;
Till spurr'd by glory, to a reading friend,
He kindly show'd the sonnets he had penn'd:

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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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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The Minstrel ; Or, The Progress Of Genius - Book II.

I.
Of chance or change O let not man complain,
Else shall he never never cease to wail:
For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain
Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale,
All feel the assault of fortune's fickle gale;
Art, empire, earth itself to change are doom'd;
Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale,
And gulphs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd,
And where the Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloom'd.

II.
But sure to foreign climes we need not range,
Nor search the ancient records of our race,
To learn the dire effects of time and change,
Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace.
Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face,
Or hoary hair, I never will repine:
But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace,
Of candour, love, or sympathy divine,
Whate'er of fancy's ray, of friendship's flame is mine.

III.
So I, obsequious to Truth's dread command,
Shall here without reluctance change my lay,
And smile to the Gothic lyre with harsher hand;
Now when I leave that flowery path for aye
Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
Where every face was innocent and gay,
Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue,
Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.

IV.
'Perish the lore that deadens young desire,'
Is the soft tenor of my song no more.
Edwin, though loved of Heaven, must not aspire
To bliss, which mortals never knew before.
On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar,
Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy;
But now and then the shades of life explore;
Though many a sound and sight of wo annoy,
And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy.

V.
Vigour from toil, from trouble patience grows.
The weakly bosom, warm in summer bower,
Some tints of transient beauty may disclose;
But soon it withers in the chilling hour.
Mark yonder oak. Superior to the power

[...] Read more

poem by James Beattie
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Croquet by Moonlight

On a moonlight evening, in the month of May,
A number of young people were playing at croquet,
They mingled together, the bashful with the gay,
And had a pleasant time and chat, while playing at croquet.

CHORUS:

This play they call croquet, croquet,
This play they call croquet,
It is amusement for the young,
This play they call croquet.

On that pleasant evening, the moon shone clear and bright,
And every heart among that crowd was filed with great delight.
It was a merry party, for lady Dell was there
Her merry laugh above the rest was heard by all, so fair.

CHORUS: This play, etc.

She was the belle that evening, admired by great and small,
And all the boys liked to play with the girl and blue ball.
She was a splendid player, so lively and so gay,
For she was skilled in playing that pleasant game croquet.

CHORUS: This play, etc.

Two young men among them, that loved this pretty Dell;
Although I write about them, their names I will not tell.
They were fine young fellows, so bashful, and yet so gay;
They tried to beat the girl that with the blue ball play.

CHORUS: This play, etc.

Ah! with those handsome fellows, Dell thought she'd have some fun,
"The one of you that'll catch me, may see me safely home."
The play began in earnest, between those fine young men,
To catch the girl with the blue ball, was impossible for them.

CHORUS: This play, etc.

She went around the play-ground, so full of life and gay,
She left them at the farther arch, so she beat them at croquet.
It was late that evening, and as I went away,
I know not how they came out, in that pleasant game, croquet.

CHORUS: This play, etc.

So croquet by moonlight is pleasant, as you see,
For business cares were laid aside, in that little company.
So playing at croquet, croquet, so playing at croquet,

[...] Read more

poem by Julia A Moore
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Free Round Trip Tickets

Those in search and seeking explanations,
For hints or clues as to what is going on today.
Are in need of one thing...
Free round trip tickets,
To their favorite amusement park.
With accomodations for two.
And one is required to be a licensed,
Psychiatrist.

'Why are you so sarcastic about this? '

I once had visions.
That came as I slept or kept awake.
They would not go away.
Something inside me said,
'You have the gift of a psychiatrist.
You need to get inside people's heads.
That's where your fortunes lay.'

But I chose to get on people's nerves,
Instead.
And I could have made a fortune doing 'both'.
Who knew it?
I blew it!

Always listen to those inner voices.
That is the best advice today I can give.
However...
Do not make public your arguments.
Being hauled away and locked up,
Could happen.
And this is what one confined will dread.

Unless...
One is at that amusement park,
And accompanied by someone...
Loving the multiple conversations conducted,
In and out of one's bed.
And affording every bit of the expense of it.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Pre-conditioned By A Doping Done

Wider are those eyes closer to full open.
Those once hazed,
With a focus directed...
On amusement and candied fantasies.

Bittersweet on tongues are messages tasted.
Messages nibbled...
From those who delivered them,
Considered once to be traitors, mavericks...
And patriots,
Carrying thick chips on shoulders...
And indifferent to steadfast policies.
Are now regarded as heros...
Who sacrificed their own lives,
To get others to 'see'.

'Get up off your knees and pay attention! '
Voices exclaimed,
From positions ostracized.

'You have been pre-conditioned by a doping done.
And duped to sleep like sheep.
Not one, not some...
But 'everyone'.'

Wider are those eyes closer to full open.
Those once hazed,
With a focus directed...
On amusement and candied fantasies.

'Get up off your knees and pay attention!
You have been pre-conditioned by a doping done.
Not one, not some...
But 'everyone'.'

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Undued

You can not live your life,
Doing unto others...
Believing your life lived,
Will be done 'undued'.

You are going to pay!
And when that time comes...
It 'will' certainly be due!

Regardless of how you hold that map held,
Or the gate you choose to go through...
Upon your entrance into the amusement park,
You've been told...
You can do as you please,
And to 'whom' you do it to!

Believing your life lived,
Will be done 'undued'.
Oh no!
You are going to pay!
And when that time comes...
It 'will' certainly be due!

Regardless,
Of how you hold that map held,
Or the gate you choose to go through...
Upon your entrance into the amusement park,
You've been told...
You can do as you please,
And to 'whom' you do it to!
You are going to pay...
For the price to ride.

From places you blindside...
Or choose to hide.
Whomever or 'whatever' it is,
'You' may select to 'do'...
You,
Will 'not' be doing it...
Undued!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Retirement

Hackney'd in business, wearied at that oar,
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more,
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low,
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego;
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade,
Where, all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er
And add a smile to what was sweet before,
He may possess the joys he thinks he sees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of ease,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having lived a trifler, die a man.
Thus conscience pleads her cause within the breast,
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd,
And calls a creature form'd for God alone,
For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own,
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims,
From what debilitates and what inflames,
From cities humming with a restless crowd,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,
Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain,
Where works of man are cluster'd close around,
And works of God are hardly to be found,
To regions where, in spite of sin and woe,
Traces of Eden are still seen below,
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove,
Remind him of his Maker’s power and love.
'Tis well, if look’d for at so late a day,
In the last scene of such a senseless play,
True wisdom will attend his feeble call,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.
Souls, that have long despised their heavenly birth,
Their wishes all impregnated with earth,
For threescore years employ’d with ceaseless care,
In catching smoke, and feeding upon air,
Conversant only with the ways of men,
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.
Inveterate habits choke the unfruitful heart,
Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part,
And, draining its nutritious power to feed
Their noxious growth, starve every better seed.
Happy, if full of days—but happier far,
If, ere we yet discern life’s evening star,
Sick of the service of a world that feeds
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,
We can escape from custom’s idiot sway,
To serve the sovereign we were born to obey.

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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The Task: Book II. -- The Time-Piece

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war
Might never reach me more! My ear is pained,
My soul is sick with every day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,
It does not feel for man. The natural bond
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not coloured like his own, and having power
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed,
Make enemies of nations who had else
Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;
And worse than all, and most to be deplored
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot,
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat
With stripes, that mercy with a bleeding heart
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.
Then what is man? And what man seeing this,
And having human feelings, does not blush
And hang his head, to think himself a man?
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
We have no slaves at home. - Then why abroad?
And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free,
They touch our country and their shackles fall.
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through every vein
Of all your empire! that where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.

Sure there is need of social intercourse,
Benevolence and peace and mutual aid

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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A Cheaper Form Of Writing Poetry Seems!

Articles, novels and short stories are highly awarded;
Nobel Prize, Pulitzer Prize and Booker prize go to them!
For poetry writings no such high prizes are awarded yet.
Is poetry a meaner form of writing compared to stories?

Fact fused fiction are appreciated as serious kind of novels;
Realism blended romantic stories are highly liked by many.
Poetry is a product of imagination, expression of emotion!
Mere fun without any utility serves no social purpose good.

Poetic philosophy of life and Nature has great value for all!
Wisdom, truth, seriousness, amusement and beauty enrich
Poetry of high value rare to be found in the poetic ocean!
If award is constituted for high philosophic poetry it’s good.

The final abode of all dissatisfied souls seems to be poetry!
Rich experience of all fields poetry blends to give satisfaction;
But many indulge in poetry writing for amusement fast now.
Only pleasure and wisdom make poetry a crown of literature!

poem by Ramesh T A
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The Task: Book II, The Time-Piece (excerpts)

...

England, with all thy faults, I love thee still--
My country! and, while yet a nook is left
Where English minds and manners may be found,
Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime
Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd
With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France
With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.
To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task:
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart
As any thund'rer there. And I can feel
Thy follies, too; and with a just disdain
Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
Reflect dishonour on the land I love.
How, in the name of soldiership and sense,
Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth
And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er
With odours, and as profligate as sweet;
Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
And love when they should fight; when such as these
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause?
Time was when it was praise and boast enough
In ev'ry clime, and travel where we might,
That we were born her children. Praise enough
To fill th' ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,
And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
Farewell those honours, and farewell with them
The hope of such hereafter! They have fall'n
Each in his field of glory; one in arms,
And one in council--Wolfe upon the lap
Of smiling victory that moment won,
And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame!
They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still
Consulting England's happiness at home,
Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown
If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought,
Put so much of his heart into his act,
That his example had a magnet's force,
And all were swift to follow whom all lov'd.
Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such!

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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Fire Alarms

The breath of sleep is heard
every room is quietly in
slumber world
on university Campus.

Fear no fire alarm –
6.50 fire alarm sirens echoes
all around
with the piercing noise
like a dog in pain.

Inside a room, the breath of sleep
is no longer heard
but the scrambles and
the bitter words of a start
to a morning, where
sleep was half undone.

No amusement is etched on
faces, grumpy, sleepy faces,
one by one appear
outside the door.
Sleepiness carved like wood
on faces:
as the fire alarm
continues to blare out its message.

Oh fire alarm, you wicked fire alarm;
always blare like a dog in pain
at the wrong time.
Slumber world has gone
on university
and my sleep was half undone
yet again.

(another day on campus in bed, when the fire alarm goes off, and we all have to go out in our pjamas at 6.50 in the morning. No amusement there. I dislike fire alarms nowadays with contempt.)

poem by Celine Berghmans
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Amusement is the happiness of those who cannot think.

quote by Alexander Pope
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Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man; it has become the amusement and delight of the few.

quote by John Masefield
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While grief is fresh, every attempt to divert only irritates. You must wait till it be digested, and then amusement will dissipate the remains of it.

quote by Samuel Johnson
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