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Abbott Now, on the St. Louis team we have Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know is on third. Costello That's what I want to find out.

quote by Bud Abbott
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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Louis Xvi Of France

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poem by Nicolas Grenier
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Archduchess Anne

1--I

In middle age an evil thing
Befell Archduchess Anne:
She looked outside her wedding-ring
Upon a princely man.

II

Count Louis was for horse and arms;
And if its beacon waved,
For love; but ladies had not charms
To match a danger braved.

III

On battlefields he was the bow
Bestrung to fly the shaft:
In idle hours his heart would flow
As winds on currents waft.

IV

His blood was of those warrior tribes
That streamed from morning's fire,
Whom now with traps and now with bribes
The wily Council wire.

V

Archduchess Anne the Council ruled,
Count Louis his great dame;
And woe to both when one had cooled!
Little was she to blame.

VI

Among her chiefs who spun their plots,
Old Kraken stood the sword:
As sharp his wits for cutting knots
Of babble he abhorred.

VII

He reverenced her name and line,
Nor other merit had
Save soldierwise to wait her sign,
And do the deed she bade.

VIII

[...] Read more

poem by George Meredith
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The Chronicle Of The Drum

Part I.

At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers,
Whoever will choose to repair,
Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors
May haply fall in with old Pierre.
On the sunshiny bench of a tavern
He sits and he prates of old wars,
And moistens his pipe of tobacco
With a drink that is named after Mars.

The beer makes his tongue run the quicker,
And as long as his tap never fails,
Thus over his favorite liquor
Old Peter will tell his old tales.
Says he, 'In my life's ninety summers
Strange changes and chances I've seen,—
So here's to all gentlemen drummers
That ever have thump'd on a skin.

'Brought up in the art military
For four generations we are;
My ancestors drumm'd for King Harry,
The Huguenot lad of Navarre.
And as each man in life has his station
According as Fortune may fix,
While Conde was waving the baton,
My grandsire was trolling the sticks.

'Ah! those were the days for commanders!
What glories my grandfather won,
Ere bigots, and lackeys, and panders
The fortunes of France had undone!
In Germany, Flanders, and Holland,—
What foeman resisted us then?
No; my grandsire was ever victorious,
My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne.

'He died: and our noble battalions
The jade fickle Fortune forsook;
And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance,
The victory lay with Malbrook.
The news it was brought to King Louis;
Corbleu! how his Majesty swore
When he heard they had taken my grandsire:
And twelve thousand gentlemen more.

'At Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet
Were we posted, on plain or in trench:
Malbrook only need to attack it

[...] Read more

poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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You Can't Blame Louis

One small town boy whose dreams were higher
Thought up a plan
To be a city man
Out in the world
Bright burned the fire
Through every door
He was so sure
Than he ran into a problem
He heard the voice inside him say
"do you believe that what you have is what you need"
You can't blame louis
Oh, louis
He found a girl
His heart's desire
She was the first
She quenched the thirst
His social whirl
Did not inspire
Her live divine
Soon lost its shine
Now he's counting every hour
Wondering where she spent the night
She doesn't slow, it seems he'll never know
You can't blame louis
Oh, louis
You can't blame louis
Oh, louis
Take a day and trace a thought to where it all began
Wondering how you felt at every turn
Even thought reality was not part of the plan
By reaching out you lit the spark forever
Louis thought he'd find the answer
In a world that has no soul
He moved on, to learn onother song
You can't blame louis
Oh, louis

song performed by Level 42
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Congratulations Tony Abbott

Congratulations Tony Abbott on finding your long lost son
Though in helping to create him you must have had good fun
You did not wear a condom which comes as no surprise
Since you believe that birth control is sinful at least in your God's eyes.

In your time as Minister for Employment you condemned the job snob
It's good to hear that your new found son works in a proper job
That he is not on welfare you would find that hard to take
You must feel pleased he is successful if for your ego's sake.

As Minister for Health on your strong stand on pro life issues every Australian know
Now you can tell the Nation look here I told you so
Had my ex girl friend had an abortion my son would not be here today
And Australia for that would be the poorer to me 'twould seem that way.

You try to tell us Mr Abbott that to your higher self you're true
But the son you now feel proud of was raised without any help from you
And though at the joy of finding your long lost son you well may drink a toast
Where were you Mr Abbott when he needed you most?

You must feel glad to know that your new found son is not living on welfare
That he is seen as successful in the bigger World out there
So congratulations Tony Abbott on finding your long lost son
Though in helping to create him I bet you had good fun.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Tony Abbott's Invitation

Politician Tony Abbott in the paper crying poor
Saying his family can't take the effects of his pay cut anymore
He still earns more in one day than I do in 26 weeks
Doesn't he think of our farmers while his gives this 'poverty' speech?
His concept of poverty reads like a comedy
Can't he hear his arrogance as he's speaking?
His 'poverty' to others is the life of a king
I invite Tony Abbott to come and live on my pay
He wouldn't survive 'till the end of Monday
Come and see what an empty fridge means
Learn a baked meal is just a can of baked beans
Come be someone who won’t own real estate
When he's got a tooth ache, how long does he wait?
Does he pain with hunger as he sells his body to pay rent?
His children getting sicker because the medicine money is spent?
Tony Abbott I challenge you today
To come and live three whole months on my pay
Go work a five day week and earn the same as me
Then come back and talk about your poverty
I invite Tony Abbot to come and live on my pay
He wouldn't survive ‘till the end of Monday
Can you see the headline on the newspaper page?
'Abbott goes postal raising family on 'low' wage'

poem by Helen Warren
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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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University Of Central Florida Volleyball

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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Smirking Peter Costello

Smirking Peter Costello wee Johnny Howard's heir
What his views are on others I do not much care
Since he is only courting the Conservative right
I would not trust him with my life though he is cunning and bright.

On what it takes to be a good Aussie he likes to have his say
But I for one respect to his views does not pay
As his views do have racial undertones it does seem seem to me
Though with my opinion many would disagree.

Smirking Peter Costello he is so full of guile
He is one of those people who smirk when they smile
Johnny Howard's job he craves and he secretly pursue
Yet he is a good Politician to give him his due.

On Howard's retirement he patiently wait
But wee Johnny the top job may never vacate
Till at the polls he's defeated or of old age he die
And that might be for two decades between you and I.

On the Government benches as they sit side by side
Their contempt for each other they struggle to hide
Sneaky wee John as P M is determined to stay
And Costello like a bad smell will just not go away.

And what of opposition leader Kim Beazley known as runner up Kim
There is very little to enthuse about him
Post next Election the next Australian Prime Minister perhaps one of these three
And of the job none of them worthy it does seem to me.

Smirking Peter Costello a man who craves power
But he may never know of his glorious hour
For Howard like a leech to the top job does cling
One must suppose the human lust for power is a natural thing.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Lord of the Isles: Canto VI.

I.
O who, that shared them, ever shall forget
The emotions of the spirit-rousing time,
When breathless in the mart the couriers met,
Early and late, at evening and at prime;
When the loud cannon and the merry chime
Hail'd news on news, as field on field was won,
When Hope, long doubtful, soar'd at length sublime,
And our glad eyes, awake as day begun,
Watch'd Joy's broad banner rise, to meet the rising sun!
O these were hours, when thrilling joy repaid
A long, long course of darkness, doubts, and fears!
The heart-sick faintness of the hope delay'd,
The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and the tears,
That track'd with terror twenty rolling years,
All was forgot in that blithe jubilee!
Her downcast eye even pale Affliction rears,
To sigh a thankful prayer, amid the glee,
That hail'd the Despot's fall, and peace and liberty!

Such news o'er Scotland's hills triumphant rode,
When 'gainst the invaders turn'd the battle's scale,
When Bruce's banner had victorious flow'd
O'er Loudoun's mountain, and in Ury's vale;
And fiery English blood oft deluged Douglas-dale,
And fiery Edward routed stout St. John,
When Randolph's war-cry swell'd the southern gale,
And many a fortress, town, and tower, was won,
And fame still sounded forth fresh deeds of glory done.

II.
Blithe tidings flew from baron's tower,
To peasant's cot, to forest-bower,
And waked the solitary cell,
Where lone Saint Bride's recluses dwell.
Princess no more, fair Isabel,
A vot'ress of the order now,
Say, did the rule that bid thee wear
Dim veil and wollen scapulare,
And reft thy locks of dark-brown hair,
That stern and rigid vow,
Did it condemn the transport high,
Which glisten'd in thy watery eye,
When minstrel or when palmer told
Each fresh exploit of Bruce the bold?-
And whose the lovely form, that shares
Thy anxious hopes, thy fears, thy prayers?
No sister she of convent shade;
So say these locks in lengthen'd braid,
So say the blushes and the sighs,

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Adrienne Vittadini

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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Saint Louis Blues

I hates to see dat evnin sun go down
Hates to see dat evnin sun go down
Cause ma baby, she done lef dis town.
If I feel tomorrow lak ah feel today
Feel tomorrow lak ah feel today,
Ill pack up my trunk, and make ma git away.
Saint louis woman wid her diamon rings
Pulls dat man roun by her apron strings.
twernt for powder an her store-bought hair
De man she love wouldnt gone nowhere, nowhere.
Got dem saint louis blues Im as blue as ah can be.
Like a man done throwed that rock down into de sea
Got dem saint louis blues Im as blue as ah can be.
Went to de gypsy get her fortune tole
To de gypsy, done got her fortune tole,
Cause she most wile bout her jelly roll.
Now dat gypsy tole her, dont you wear no black.
She done tole her, dont you wear no black.
Go to saint louis, you can win him back.
If she git tocairo, make saint louis by herself,
Git to cairo, find her old friend jeff,
Gwine to pin herself, right there, to his side if she flag his train, she sho can ride.
(spoken) and she sang
Got dem saint louis blues jes as blue as ah can be.
Dat man got a heart lak a rock cast into de sea.
Or else he wouldnt have gone so far from me.
Doggone it!
I loves day man lak a schoolboy loves his pie,
Lak a kentucky colnel ....loves his mint an rye.
Ill love ma baby till the day ah die.
Now a black-headed gal makes a freight train jump the track,
Said a black-headed gal makes a freight train jump the track,
But a long tall gal makes a preacher ball the jack.
Lawd, a blonde-headed woman make a good man leave the town,
I said a blonde-headed woman make a good man leave the town,
But a red-headed woman make a boy slap his pappy down.

song performed by Louis Armstrong
Added by Lucian Velea
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St Louis Blues

I hate's to see dat ev'nin' sun go down
Hate's to see dat ev'nin' sun go down
Cause ma baby, she done lef' dis town
If I feel tomorrow lak ah feel today
Feel tomorrow lak ah feel today
I'll pack up my trunk, and make ma git away
Saint Louis woman wid her diamon' rings
Pulls dat man 'roun' by her apron strings
'Twern't for powder an' her store-bought hair
De man she love wouldn't gone nowhere, nowhere
Got dem Saint Louis Blues I'm as blue as ah can be
Like a man done throwed that rock down into de sea
Got dem Saint Louis Blues I'm as blue as ah can be
Went to de gypsy get her fortune tole
To de gypsy, done got her fortune tole
Cause she most wile 'bout her Jelly Roll
Now dat gypsy tole her, "Don't you wear no black"
She done tole her, "Don't you wear no black
Go to Saint Louis, you can win him back"
If she git toCairo, make Saint Louis by herself
Git to Cairo, find her old friend Jeff
gwine to pin herself, right there, to his side If she flag his train, she sho' can ride
And she sang
Got dem Saint Louis Blues jes as blue as ah can be
Dat man got a heart lak a rock cast into de sea
Or else he wouldn't have gone so far from me
Doggone it!
I loves day man lak a schoolboy loves his pie
Lak a Kentucky Col'nel loves his mint an' rye
I'll love ma baby till the day ah die
Now a black-headed gal makes a freight train jump the track
Said a black-headed gal makes a freight train jump the track
But a long tall gal makes a preacher ball the jack
Lawd, a blonde-headed woman make a good man leave the town
I said a blonde-headed woman make a good man leave the town
But a red-headed woman make a boy slap his pappy down

song performed by Louis Armstrong
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Wrecked Illusions

Dedicated to Louis Becke

You are now in London town,
Louis Becke,
Keeping up your old renown,
Writing yarns of women brown,
Getting yellow money down,
Or a cheque.

That is right enough, maybe -
You are wise;
But your Isles of the South Sea,
Where the life is bold and free,
You may have them all for me -
Dash your eyes!

I armful of you, I am,
To the neck;
And I cannot think with a calm
Of your tales 'By Reef and Palm'
But I have to mutter 'D--n
Louis Becke!'

You have lined, the press records
(Not in joke),
At the hospitable boards
Of a lot of dukes and lords,
And beguiled them with you words -
Simple folk!

Yet I would not envy you,
Be it said,
if the tales you told were true
As they were unique and new -
But you made them all up, Loo,
In your head.

Never, as in days of yore,
(You will see)
On your pages shall I pore,
With their yarns of love and gore,
Never, Louis, anymore
Becke for me.

I'd rejoice to have you here
(You might grieve!)
With your pen behind your ear,
In this clammy atmosphere,
Where it rains all round the year,

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poem by Victor James Daley
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Twin State

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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1954

Then dirt scared me, because of the dirt
he had put on her face. And her training bra
scared me—the newspapers, morning and evening,
kept saying it, training bra,
as if the cups of it had been calling
the breasts up—he buried her in it,
perhaps he had never bothered to take it
off. They found her underpants
in a garbage can. And I feared the word
eczema, like my acne and like
the X in the paper which marked her body,
as if he had killed her for not being flawless.
I feared his name, Burton Abbott,
the first name that was a last name,
as if he were not someone specific.
It was nothing one could learn from his face.
His face was dull and ordinary,
it took away what I’d thought I could count on
about evil. He looked thin and lonely,
it was horrifying, he looked almost humble.
I felt awe that dirt was so impersonal,
and pity for the training bra,
pity and terror of eczema.
And I could not sit on my mother’s electric
blanket anymore, I began to have a
fear of electricity—
the good people, the parents, were going to
fry him to death. This was what
his parents had been telling us:
Burton Abbott, Burton Abbott,
death to the person, death to the home planet.
The worst thing was to think of her,
of what it had been to be her, alive,
to be walked, alive, into that cabin,
to look into those eyes, and see the human

Anonymous submission.

poem by Sharon Olds
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VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I'll Throw My Toys Around

by No Doubt feat. Elvis Costello
Gwen Stefani - Elvis Costello - Gwen Stefani & Elvis Costello
I've got no time for fairy stories
I'm not a little girl
So you can leave me all alone
And turn off the lights as well
If you were frightened then listen
But I don't think you would like it
Such a nice kid
Nobody's looking now (Nobody's looking)
I throw my toys around
Somebody's being very bad
I wonder who it could be
Somebody's going to get in trouble
I know it isn't me
I'm just a little angel
But you don't know what I've done
When your backs turned
Nobody's looking now (Nobody's looking)
I throw my toys around
Pick up those building blocks
Chop off my baby's locks
Swing dolly by her hair
Put down that teddy bear
Slam dunk a happy clown
I throw my toys around
I've got no time for bedtime stories
I'm not a little child
Everything makes me furious
And everything makes me wild
If you are frightened
Then whistle and I'll come running to you
As you boo hoo
Nobody's looking now (Nobody's looking)
I throw my toys around
Nobody's looking now (Nobody's looking)
I throw my toys around
I throw my toys around
I throw my toys around
I throw my toys around
I throw my toys around
I throw my toys around
I throw my toys around
I throw my toys around
I throw my toys around
I throw my toys around
I throw my toys around

song performed by No Doubt
Added by Lucian Velea
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

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