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When people protest and are upset with a movie, it becomes a big hit. They hated Passion of The Christ, it worked out pretty well for the box office. So let's get that going.

quote by Denzel Washington
Added by Lucian Velea
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Book Of The Duchesse

THE PROEM

I have gret wonder, be this lighte,
How that I live, for day ne nighte
I may nat slepe wel nigh noght,
I have so many an ydel thoght
Purely for defaute of slepe
That, by my trouthe, I take no kepe
Of no-thing, how hit cometh or goth,
Ne me nis no-thing leef nor loth.
Al is y-liche good to me --
Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be --
For I have feling in no-thinge,
But, as it were, a mased thing,
Alway in point to falle a-doun;
For sorwful imaginacioun
Is alway hoolly in my minde.
And wel ye wite, agaynes kynde
Hit were to liven in this wyse;
For nature wolde nat suffyse
To noon erthely creature
Not longe tyme to endure
Withoute slepe, and been in sorwe;
And I ne may, ne night ne morwe,
Slepe; and thus melancolye
And dreed I have for to dye,
Defaute of slepe and hevinesse
Hath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse,
That I have lost al lustihede.
Suche fantasies ben in myn hede
So I not what is best to do.
But men myght axe me, why soo
I may not slepe, and what me is?
But natheles, who aske this
Leseth his asking trewely.
My-selven can not telle why
The sooth; but trewely, as I gesse,
I holde hit be a siknesse
That I have suffred this eight yere,
And yet my bote is never the nere;
For ther is phisicien but oon,
That may me hele; but that is doon.
Passe we over until eft;
That wil not be, moot nede be left;
Our first matere is good to kepe.
So whan I saw I might not slepe,
Til now late, this other night,
Upon my bedde I sat upright
And bad oon reche me a book,
A romaunce, and he hit me took

[...] Read more

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Cleanness

Clannesse who so kyndly cowþe comende
& rekken vp alle þe resounz þat ho by ri3t askez,
Fayre formez my3t he fynde in for[þ]ering his speche
& in þe contrare kark & combraunce huge.
For wonder wroth is þe Wy3þat wro3t alle þinges
Wyth þe freke þat in fylþe fol3es Hym after,
As renkez of relygioun þat reden & syngen
& aprochen to hys presens & prestez arn called;
Thay teen vnto his temmple & temen to hym seluen,
Reken with reuerence þay rychen His auter;
Þay hondel þer his aune body & vsen hit boþe.
If þay in clannes be clos þay cleche gret mede;
Bot if þay conterfete crafte & cortaysye wont,
As be honest vtwyth & inwith alle fylþez,
Þen ar þay synful hemself & sulped altogeder
Boþe God & His gere, & hym to greme cachen.
He is so clene in His courte, þe Kyng þat al weldez,
& honeste in His housholde & hagherlych serued
With angelez enourled in alle þat is clene,
Boþ withine & withouten in wedez ful bry3t;
Nif he nere scoymus & skyg & non scaþe louied,
Hit were a meruayl to much, hit mo3t not falle.
Kryst kydde hit Hymself in a carp onez,
Þeras He heuened a3t happez & hy3t hem her medez.
Me mynez on one amonge oþer, as Maþew recordez,
Þat þus clanness vnclosez a ful cler speche:
Þe haþel clene of his hert hapenez ful fayre,
For he schal loke on oure Lorde with a bone chere';
As so saytz, to þat sy3t seche schal he neuer
Þat any vnclannesse hatz on, auwhere abowte;
For He þat flemus vch fylþe fer fro His hert
May not byde þat burre þat hit His body ne3en.
Forþy hy3not to heuen in haterez totorne,
Ne in þe harlatez hod, & handez vnwaschen.
For what vrþly haþel þat hy3honour haldez
Wolde lyke if a ladde com lyþerly attyred,
When he were sette solempnely in a sete ryche,
Abof dukez on dece, with dayntys serued?
Þen þe harlot with haste helded to þe table,
With rent cokrez at þe kne & his clutte traschez,
& his tabarde totorne, & his totez oute,
Oþer ani on of alle þyse, he schulde be halden vtter,
With mony blame ful bygge, a boffet peraunter,
Hurled to þe halle dore & harde þeroute schowued,
& be forboden þat bor3e to bowe þider neuer,
On payne of enprysonment & puttyng in stokkez;
& þus schal he be schent for his schrowde feble,
Þa3neuer in talle ne in tuch he trespas more.
& if vnwelcum he were to a worþlych prynce,
3et hym is þe hy3e Kyng harder in her euen;

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Steamheaters

She wants a love...
She can take into her arms.
Hold her with her charms.
And sing love songs,
To allure
And captivate!
Heating...
Without setting off the alarm!

He wants a love...
No other one has had.
When it is 'his' booty...
He likes it slow not fast!
And he's glad no one has had,
To touch his booty's ass!
If that has to happen,
He knew he would be sad!

And...
'What' they want...
Maybe a bit too soon.
They need more memory moments.
Before beginning to cast eyes on that 'fullmoon'!
As they lay naked on the basement floor...
Sighing and grinding in lovebird swoons!

'WHAT? '

Steamheaters drip...
Just 'getting it'!
They both are wet,
From the basement water!

Steamheaters kiss...
With sexiness.
He sucked her tits,
'Til her husband caught her,
With his best friend...
'getin' it! '

'Uh...
For clarification,
Will you say that again, please? '

You want it sung?

'No,
I just want it heard.
I may have misunderstood!
What I thought your blurted,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Unlock That Box Just For You

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box.
And walk away from it when you get out.
Experience what life is about.
It's not inside to keep up whining,
It's not inside to throw a tantrum and pout.

The key to feeling happy and free...
You've got to move your feet with direct speed.
You've got to unleash from guilt and pity.

The key to feeling happy and free...
You've got to accept what is there and care!
You can not wish for something you think is fair.

The key to feeling happy and free...
You've got to unload despair and grief.
You've got to move with faith and beliefs.

The key to feeling happy and free...
You've got to move your feet with direct speed.
You've got to unleash from guilt and pity.

The key to feeling happy and free...
You've got to accept what is there and care!
You can not wish for something you think is fair.

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box.
And walk away from it when you get out.
Experience what life is about.
It's not inside to keep up whining,
It's not inside to throw a tantrum and pout.

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box and get out.
Look around and see what your world's about.

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box and get out.
Look around and see what your world's about.

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box and get out.
Look around and see what your world's about.

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box and get out.
Unlock that box and get out.
Unlock that box and get out.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Hit Me With A Rock

When I was a little boy
(when I was just a boy)
And my mother would call my name
(when I was just a boy)
Shed say I had to be in the house by seven
(when I was just a boy)
But Id stay out late at night
(when I was just a boy)
And when Id finally get back in
Oh, I know shed hit me, shed hit me
Shed sit me on her knees and whip me
Oh, shed hit me with a rock
Shed whip me with a rock, oh baby
Shed hit me (hit me with a rock)
Shed hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me
(hit me with a rock)
And when I was grown to be a man
(grown to be a man)
The minute the boss would call my name
(grown to be a man)
And say I had to be in the office by seven
(grown to be a man)
Im a constipated man
(grown to be a man)
And when Id finally get back in
Oh, my bossd hit me, hed hit me
Hed tie me to a chair and whip me
Oh hed hit me with a rock
Hed whip me with a rock, oh baby
Hed hit me (hit me with a rock)
Hed hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me
(hit me with a rock)
When I was grown to be president
(was the president)
The minute the congressd call my name
(was the president)
And said some papers had to be signed by thursday
(had to be signed by thursday)
Id fly away to pakistan
(was the president)
And the second that Id get back home
Oh, I know theyd hit me, theyd hit me
With leather and chains theyd whip me
Oh, theyd hit me with a rock
Theyd whip me with a rock, oh baby
Theyd hit me. (hit me with a rock)
Theyd hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me
(hit me with a rock)
Hit me, hit me, hit me
(hit me with a rock)

[...] Read more

song performed by Weird Al Yankovic
Added by Lucian Velea
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Bruce Lee

( bullet got the wrong bloke )
Life kid suck
Drink from the box
The juice kicks up
Life give suck the box drink
Yeah
Life kid drink from the box
The juice kicks up
Life kids sucker
Box drink
Yeah
Bruce lee
Life kid seen from the box
Seen from the box
The juice from the box
Kids suck life
Kid get suck from the box
Drink
Bruce lee
Life kid suck from the box
Drink from the box
The juice kicks up
Life kid suck from the box
Drink
Yeah
Bruce lee
Life gets in from the box
Seen from the box
The juice from the box
Kids suck life
Kid get suck from the box
Drink
Bruce lee
Life kid suck from the box
Drink from the box
The juice kicks up
Life kid suck from the box
Drink
Yeah
Bruce lee
( yeah yeah yeah yeah )
Life kid suck from the box
Drink from the box
The juice kicks up
Life kid suck from the box
Yeah
Bruce lee
Life kid ? ? from the box
Seen from the box
Drink from the box

[...] Read more

song performed by Underworld
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Avowyng of Arthur

He that made us on the mulde,
And fair fourmet the folde,
Atte His will, as He wold,
The see and the sande,
Giffe hom joy that will here
Of dughti men and of dere,
Of haldurs that before us were,
That lifd in this londe.
One was Arther the Kinge,
Wythowtun any letting;
Wyth him was mony lordinge
Hardi of honde.
Wice and war ofte thay were,
Bold undur banere,
And wighte weppuns wold were,
And stifly wold stond.

This is no fantum ne no fabull;
Ye wote wele of the Rowun Tabull,
Of prest men and priveabull,
Was holdun in prise:
Chevetan of chivalry,
Kyndenesse and curtesy,
Hunting full warly,
As wayt men and wise.
To the forest thay fare
To hunte atte buk and atte bare,
To the herte and to the hare,
That bredus in the rise.
The King atte Carlele he lay;
The hunter cummys on a day -
Sayd, 'Sir, ther walkes in my way
A well grim gryse.
'He is a balefull bare -
Seche on segh I nevyr are:
He hase wroghte me mycull care
And hurte of my howundes,
Slayn hom downe slely
Wyth feghting full furcely.
Wasse ther none so hardi
Durste bide in his bandus.
On him spild I my spere
And mycull of my nothir gere.
Ther moue no dintus him dere,
Ne wurche him no wowundes.
He is masly made -
All offellus that he bade.
Ther is no bulle so brade
That in frith foundes.

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Long Goodbye

You are always there for me.
When things are tough
When things are rough.
You always have that hidden smile
You can always see it a mile.
You can make me laugh
When all i want to do is cry
You make me change my mind
When all i want to do is die.
You carry my weight, on your shoulders.
You hold me, in your arms
You remember the good times,
You remember the bad times.
You smile at the good ones
Cry at the bad ones.
You are always there for me.
When i'm down,
You help me up
When i'm a fool,
you make up for it
When i'm sorry
You except my apology,
When everything in my world is crashing down, when there is nothing left around, when i can't hear a sound, your there for me.
When all i want to do is cry, when all i want to do is die, when all i want to do is fly, you hold me down to earth.
Thankyou, for smiling those gray clouds away
Thankyou for laughing my pain away
Thankyou for holding me close
Thankyou for choosing me of all people
Thankyou for excepting me
Thankyou for allowing me to be me
Thankyou for letting me cry on your shoulder.
Thankyou for being my bolder to life. Where u can roll away my problams or perhaps smoosh them.
Thankyou for making me laugh, even just for a little while.
Thankyou for being you.
I love who you are.
I love your face, i love your smile
I love your eyes i see awhile
I love your smell, i love your color
I love your toes, i love your fingers.
I love your heart, i love your chest
I love your legs, i love your arms.
I love your soul, so pure and white
I love your feathers and crown that shine bright.
I love your innocence, i love your happiness
I love your laugh, i love your cry
I love how, you don't want me to die
I love how you care, i love how you hold me
I love your infedelity. I love your inner-self most being
I love who you are. I love how you are.
I love how you act. I love you.

[...] Read more

poem by Dakota Waggerman
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Big Night

Oh, it's gonna be a big night
We're gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night

1,2,3, all my boys and girls
We gonna party like it's the end of the world
Let's get it started, started, started, whoa, oh

Waitin' on weekends it's Friday night
We gonna get dressed up
For the time of our lives
Let's get it started, started, started

'Cause I've been feelin' down, down, down
I need a pick me up, round, round, round
I wanna spin it up loud, loud, loud
DJ take me away

Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We're gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night

Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night

It's been a long week
Been workin' overtime
I need a heartbeat
To get this party right

I'm on another level
Turn up the bass and treble
Turn it up, turn it up, turn it up

'Cause I've been feelin' down, down, down
I need a pick me up, round, round, round
I wanna spin it up loud, loud, loud
DJ take me away

Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night

Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We gonna have a good time

[...] Read more

poem by Jojo Jonna
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Passion

(rod stewart / chen, savigar, cregan, grainger)
Somebody somewhere
In the heat of the night
Looking pretty dangerous
Running out of patience
Tonight in the city
You wont find any pity
Hearts are being twisted
Another lover cheated, cheated
In the bars and the cafes, passion
In the streets and the alleys, passion
A lot of pretending, passion
Everybody searching, passion
Once in love youre never out of danger
One hot night spent with a stranger
All you wanted was somebody to hold on to yeah
Passion, passion
Passion, passion
New york, moscow, passion
Hong kong, tokyo, passion
Paris and bangkok, passion
A lotta people aint got, passion
Hear it in the radio, passion
Read it in the papers, passion
Hear it in the churches, passion
See it in the school yards, passion
Once in love youre never out of danger
One hot night spent with a stranger
All you wanted was somebody to hold on to yeah
Once in love youre never out of danger
One hot night spent with a stranger
All you wanted was somebody to hold on to yeah
Alone in your bed at night, passion
Its half past midnight, passion
As you turn out your sidelight, passion
Something aint right, passion
Theres no passion, theres no passion
Theres no passion, I need passion
You need passion, we need passion
Cant live without passion
Wont live without passion
Even the president needs passion
Everybody I know needs some passion
Some people die and kill for passion
Nobody admits they need passion
Some people are scared of passion
Yeah passion

song performed by Rod Stewart
Added by Lucian Velea
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Virginia's Story

Elizabeth Gates-Wooten is my Grand mom.

She was born in Canada with her father and brothers.
They owned a Barber Shoppe.
I don't remember exactly where in Canada.
I believe it was right over the border like Windsor or Toronto.
I never knew exactly where it was.

When she was old enough she got married.

First, she married a man by the name of Frank Gates.
He was from Madagascar.
He fathered my mom and her brother and sister.
The boy's name was Frank Gates, Jr.
Two girls name were Anna and Agnes.

Agnes was my mother.

Frank Gates went crazy after the war
He drank a lot and died
Then grandma Elizabeth married a man by the name of Mr. Wooten.
He had a German name, but I don't think he was German.
She took his last name after they got married.

Then they moved to West Virginia in the United States.

Their son, Frank Gates Jr. Became a delegate in the democratic party.
He use to get into a lot of trouble because he liked to fight.
He was a delegate from the 1940's to 1970's.
He died of gout in the 1970's.

Anna was a maid and cook.

She baked cakes and stuff for people as a side line.
She had a hump on her back (scoliosis) .
She had to walk with a cane.
She could cook good though.
She did this kind of work all of her life, just like her mom, Elizabeth

They were both good cooks

They had a lot of money because they had these skills
Especially when people had parties.
Because they would make all of this food and then they would have left-overs.
We got to eat a lot of stuff we normally wouldn't get because of that.
When they cooked, they didn't use no measuring stuff, they would just use there hand.

My moms name was Agnes Barrie Gates.

She married James Wright and moved to Cleveland.

[...] Read more

poem by Talile Ali
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The things I love with a passion

I rock and roll with passion
I talk out my soul with a passion

I eat good food with passion
I defeat bad mood with a passion

I sleep well with passion
I weep hell with a passion

I dream endlessly with passion
I gleam ceaselessly with a passion

I aim for money with passion
I do the same for honey with a passion

I listen carefully with passion
I glisten dutifully with a passion

I search for fame with passion
I research to blame with a passion

I walk everyday with passion
I talk and play with a passion

I embrace life with passion
I face nightlife with a passion

I laugh out with passion
I chaffe about with a passion

I cook with others with passion
I look at mothers with a passion

I touch gently with passion
I clutch tightly with a passion

I work hard with a passion
I rock mad with a passion

I gear up goals with passion
I stir up roles with a passion

I make friends with passion
I take weekends with a passion

I love kissing with passion
I love teasing with a passion

I make love with passion
I take from above with a passion

[...] Read more

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Patience

Pacience is a poynt, þa33e,
& quo for þro may no3t þole, þe þikker he sufferes.
&Thorn;en is better to abyde þe bur vmbestoundes
&Thorn;en ay þrow forth my þro, þa33e masse,
How Mathew melede þat his Mayster His meyny con teche.
A3t happes He hem hy3t & vcheon a mede,
Sunderlupes, for hit dissert, vpon a ser wyse:
Thay arn happen þat han in hert pouerte,
For hores is þe heuen-ryche to holde for euer;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat haunte mekenesse,
For þay schal welde þis worlde & alle her wylle haue;
Thay ar happen also þat for her harme wepes,
For þay schal comfort encroche in kythes ful mony;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat hungeres after ry3t,
For þay schal frely be refete ful of alle gode;
Thay ar happen also þat han in hert rauþe,
For mercy in alle maneres her mede schal worþe;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat arn of hert clene,
For þay her Sauyour in sete schal se with her y3en;
Thay ar happen also þat halden her pese,
For þay þe gracious Godes sunes schal godly be called;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat con her hert stere,
For hores is þe heuen-ryche, as I er sayde.
These arn þe happes alle a3t þat vus bihy3t weren,
If we þyse ladyes wolde lof in lyknyng of þewes:
Dame Pouert, Dame Pitee, Dame Penaunce þe þrydde,
Dame Mekenesse, Dame Mercy, & miry Clannesse,
& þenne Dame Pes, & Pacyence put in þerafter.
He were happen þat hade one; alle were þe better.
Bot [s]yn I am put to a poynt þat pouerte hatte,
I schal me poruay pacyence & play me with boþe,
For in þe tyxte þere þyse two arn in teme layde,
Hit arn fettled in on forme, þe forme & þe laste,
& by quest of her quoyntyse enquylen on mede.
& als, in myn vpynyoun, hit arn of on kynde:
For þeras pouert hir proferes ho nyl be put vtter,
Bot lenge wheresoeuer hir lyst, lyke oþer greme;
& þereas pouert enpresses, þa33tloker hit lyke & her lotes prayse,
&Thorn;enne wyþer wyth & be wroth & þe wers haue.
3if me be dy3t a destyne due to haue,
What dowes me þe dedayn, oþer dispit make?
Oþer 3if my lege lorde lyst on lyue me to bidde
Oþer to ryde oþer to renne to Rome in his ernde,
What grayþed me þe grychchyng bot grame more seche?
Much 3if he me ne made, maugref my chekes,
& þenne þrat moste I þole & vnþonk to mede,
&Thorn;e had bowed to his bode bongre my hyure.
Did not Jonas in Jude suche jape sumwhyle?
To sette hym to sewrte, vnsounde he hym feches.
Wyl 3e tary a lyttel tyne & tent me a whyle,

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Parliament Of Fowles

Here begynyth the Parlement of Foulys

THE PROEM

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,
Thassay so hard, so sharp the conquering,
The dredful Ioy, that alwey slit so yerne,
Al this mene I by love, that my feling
Astonyeth with his wonderful worching
So sore y-wis, that whan I on him thinke,
Nat wot I wel wher that I wake or winke.

For al be that I knowe nat love in dede,
Ne wot how that he quyteth folk hir hyre,
Yet happeth me ful ofte in bokes rede
Of his miracles, and his cruel yre;
Ther rede I wel he wol be lord and syre,
I dar not seyn, his strokes been so sore,
But God save swich a lord! I can no more.

Of usage, what for luste what for lore,
On bokes rede I ofte, as I yow tolde.
But wherfor that I speke al this? not yore
Agon, hit happed me for to beholde
Upon a boke, was write with lettres olde;
And ther-upon, a certeyn thing to lerne,
The longe day ful faste I radde and yerne.

For out of olde feldes, as men seith,
Cometh al this newe corn fro yeer to yere;
And out of olde bokes, in good feith,
Cometh al this newe science that men lere.
But now to purpos as of this matere --
To rede forth hit gan me so delyte,
That al the day me thoughte but a lyte.

This book of which I make of mencioun,
Entitled was al thus, as I shal telle,
`Tullius of the dreme of Scipioun.';
Chapitres seven hit hadde, of hevene and helle,
And erthe, and soules that therinnr dwelle,
Of whiche, as shortly as I can hit trete,
Of his sentence I wol you seyn the grete.

First telleth hit, whan Scipion was come
In Afrik, how he mette Massinisse,
That him for Ioye in armes hath y nome.
Than telleth hit hir speche and al the blisse
That was betwix hem, til the day gan misse;
And how his auncestre, African so dere,

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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Big Time

Suc cess
Im on my way, Im making it
Ive giot to make it show, yeah
So much larger than life
Im going to watch it growing
The place where I come from is a small town
They think so small
They use small words
-but not me
Im smarter than that
I worked it out
Ive been stretching my mouth
To let those big words come right out
Ive had enough, Im getting out
To the city, the big big city
Ill be a big noise with all the big boys
Theres so much stuff I will own
And I will pray to a big god
As I kneel in the big church
Big time
Im on my way-Im making it
Big time big time
Ive got to make it show yeah
Big time big time
So much larger than life
Big time
Im going to watch it growing
Big time
My parties all have big names
And I greet them with the widest smile
Tell them how my life is one big adventure^
And always theyre amazed
When I show them round my house, to my bed
I had it made like a mountain range
With a snow-white pillow for my big fat head
And my heaven will be a big heaven
And I will walk through the front door
Big time
Im on my way-Im making it
Big time big time
Ive got to make it show-yeah
Big time big time
So much larger than life
Im going to watch it growing
Big time big time
My car is getting bigger
Big time
My house is getting bigger
Big time
My eyes are getting bigger

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song performed by Peter Gabriel
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ballad Of Jesus Of Nazareth

I.

It matters not what place he drew
At first life's mortal breath,
Some say it was in Bethlehem,
And some in Nazareth.
But shame and sorrow were his lot
And shameful was his death.

The angels sang, and o'er the barn
Wherein the infant lay,
They hung a star, for they foresaw
The sad world's better day,
But well God knew what thyme and rue
Were planted by his way.

The children of the Pharisees
In hymn and orison
Worshipped the prophets, whom their sires
To cruel death had done,
And said, 'had we been there their death
We had not looked upon.'

While the star shone the angels saw
The tombs these children built
For those the world had driven out,
And smitten to the hilt,
God knew these wretched sons would bear
The self-same bloody guilt.

Always had he who strives for men
But done some other thing,
If he had not led a hermit life,
Or had not had his fling,
We would have followed him, they say,
And made him lord and King.

For John was clothed in camel's hair
And lived among the brutes;
But Jesus fared where the feast was spread
To the sound of shawms and lutes,
Where gathered knaves and publicans
And hapless prostitutes.

Like children in the market place
Who sullen sat and heard,
With John they would not mourn, nor yet
Rejoice at Jesus' word;
Had Jesus mourned, or John rejoiced,
He had been King and lord.

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poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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One Chance

We have one chance.
One chance to get everything right.
We have one chance, one chance.
And if we're lucky we might.
My friends, my habits, my family,
they mean so much to me.
I just don't think that it's right.
I've seen so many ships sail in,
just to head back out again and go off sinking.
I'm just a box in a cage. I'm just a box in a cage.
I'm just a box, just a box in a cage.
I'm just a box, just a box in a cage.
I'm just a box, just a box in a cage.
I'm just a box in a cage.
Didn't mean to laugh, didn't know I had.
Didn't know the better part of what you said
cuz in your head you are not home.
Didn't get the joke. Didn't mean to poke another,
just to save myself
from some something something or another one.
Well walk home.
I'm just a box in a cage. I'm just a box in a cage.
I'm just a box, just a box in a cage.
I'm just a box in a cage.
I'm just a box, just a box in a cage.
I'm just a box, just a box in a cage.
I'm just a box in a cage.
We have one chance,
one chance to get everything right.
My friends, my habits, my family,
they mean so much to me.
I just don't think that it's right.
I've seen so many ships sail in,
just to head back out again and go off sinking.

song performed by Modest Mouse
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Beggar's Daughter of Bednall-Green

Part the First
Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,
He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright;
And many a gallant brave suiter had shee,
For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.

And though shee was of favor most faire,
Yett seing shee was but a poor beggars heyre,
Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee,
Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.

Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say,
'Good father, and mother, let me goe away
To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee.'
This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.

Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright,
All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night
From father and mother alone parted shee,
Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.

Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow,
Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe;
With teares shee lamented her hard destinie,
So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.

Shee kept on her journey untill it was day,
And went unto Rumford along the hye way;
Where at the Queenes Armes entertained was shee,
Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.

Shee had not beene there a month to an end,
But master and mistres and all was her friend;
And every brave gallant that once did her see
Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee.

Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,
And in their songs daylye her love was extold;
Her beawtye was blazed in every degree,
Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.

The young men of Rumford in her had their joy;
Shee shewed herself courteous, and modestlye coye,
And at her commandment still wold they bee,
Soe fayre and so comelye was pretty Bessee.

Foure suitors att once unto her did goe,
They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe;
'I wild not wish gentles to marry with mee,-'
Yett ever they honored pretty Bessee.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Anelida and Arcite

Thou ferse god of armes, Mars the rede,
That in the frosty contre called Trace,
Within thy grisly temple ful of drede
Honoured art as patroun of that place;
With thy Bellona, Pallas, ful of grace,
Be present and my song contynue and guye;
At my begynnyng thus to the I crye.

For hit ful depe is sonken in my mynde,
With pitous hert in Englyssh to endyte
This olde storie, in Latyn which I fynde,
Of quene Anelida and fals Arcite,
That elde, which that al can frete and bite,
As hit hath freten mony a noble storie,
Hath nygh devoured out of oure memorie.

Be favorable eke, thou Polymya,
On Parnaso that with thy sustres glade,
By Elycon, not fer from Cirrea,
Singest with vois memorial in the shade,
Under the laurer which that may not fade,
And do that I my ship to haven wynne.
First folowe I Stace, and after him Corynne.

The Story.

Iamque domos patrias Cithice post aspera gentis
Prelia laurigero subeunte Thesea curru
Letifici plausus missusque ad sidera vulgi

When Theseus with werres longe and grete
The aspre folk of Cithe had overcome,
With laurer corouned, in his char gold-bete,
Hom to his contre-houses is he come,
For which the peple, blisful al and somme,
So cry{:e}den that to the sterres hit wente,
And him to honouren dide al her entente.

Beforn this duk, in signe of victorie,
The trompes come, and in his baner large
The ymage of Mars, and in tokenyng of glorie
Men myghte sen of tresour many a charge,
Many a bright helm, and many a spere and targe,
Many a fresh knyght, and many a blysful route,
On hors, on fote, in al the feld aboute.

Ipolita his wif, the hardy quene
Of Cithia, that he conquered hadde,
With Emelye her yonge suster shene,

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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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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

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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