I don't even butter my bread. I consider that cooking.
quote by Katherine Cebrian
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Related quotes
Some Considerations
Consider this world and also our place in it
and know that time passes by every minute.
Consider those who’re living and also the dead
and know of the ways people earn their bread.
We consider many things but few are of real importance
and know that all those which are not are in abundance.
In consideration of this what can anyone do?
but live one’s life in a way which is true.
Consider the flowers in the garden and the colours they show
and know that with tender loving care from a seed they grow.
Consider all the children somewhere and watch them play
and know that with laughter and fun most pass the day.
Consider the things which are false and those which are true
and know how each one can and does affect all that we do.
In consideration of this what can we all do?
but try and live in a way which is just true.
Consider the march of the spirit of progress and the direction we’re all going
and know that every so often we must turn around and look back knowing.
Consider that which we all know and also that which we do not
and know it’s but knowledge and ignorance that make up the lot.
Consider the beginning and that of the very end
and know it’s terrible to get there without a friend.
In consideration of this what can one do?
but go through life with a friend who’s true.
Consider about each day and then also about each night
and know that without them there’s no darkness or light.
Consider the sunshine and also the shade
and know that with them each day is made.
Consider the evening and also the time we sleep
and know that because of them the night is deep.
In consideration of this what is there to do?
but live one day at a time and remember too.
Consider that which seems right and also what appears wrong
and know that they are both attributes of the weak and strong.
Consider the past and the future and of course the present
and know that all life relates to them and is not an accident.
Consider the labour with the crops and also the extent of the field
and know that with care and nature’s help a rich harvest will yield.
In consideration of this what is there one must do?
but only the best that one can so as to get through.
[...] Read more
poem by George Krokos
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Butter
Pull me from the toaster
Straight into the roaster
Fill my head with the stuff
Brightest dreams are made of
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Duh
Promising the big guns
Reward when the light comes
Screaming from the damage done
Screaming from the damage done
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Duh
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up like I know you will
Cover it up like I know you will
Better yourself like I know you will
Breaking the trust like you always will
Be good for it, you never will
Be good for it, you never will
Be good for it, you never will
Be good for it, you never will
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Butter me up, butter me up
Duh
So you think you got the best
Thought I was like all the rest
Reaping from the damage done
Reaping from the damage done
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Bringing me down again
Duh
song performed by Ultraspank
Added by Lucian Velea
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Butter Up
Butter up,
If you want to keep me weak and numb.
Butter up,
If you want to be my number one.
Butter up,
If you want to have the weekends done,
With nothing but a loving and done with fun.
Butter up,
If you want to keep me weak and numb.
Butter up,
If you want to be my number one.
Butter up,
If you want to have the weekends done,
With nothing but a loving and done with fun.
And when Monday begins,
We'll have those memories...
To keep!
Butter up!
Butter up!
Butter up, butter up, butter up, butter up!
Butter up...
If you want to keep me weak and numb.
Butter up,
If you want to be my number one.
Butter up,
If you want to have the weekends done,
With nothing but a buttering done with fun.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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MaMa's Cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
It's an assortment of goodie things
Chocolate, pies and banana pudding
Enough food and that's Mama's cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Apron in hand and lasting impression I didn't want to miss
Everything seem perfect from beginning to end
Enough food and that's Mama's Cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Smiling faces and a gentle speech of o.k.
Noone knows how much the void I can't fill
Enough food and that Mama's Cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Being polite and sincere would carry the weight
Seemingly enough she has the greater plan
Enough food and that Mama's Cooking ahead
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
The napkins, plates and never-ending why didn't it last
Noone knows how much the void I can't fill
Enough food and that's Mama's Cooking again
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Craving for the turkey and dressing pan
Not to admit, seemed a bit much
Enough Food and that's Mama's Cooking again
So nowadays, I look for the needle in the haystack
Wishing on the times, she would come back
It's been 10 years, since I said thoughs word's
Enough food and that Mama's blessing for us
Missing mom everyday becomes second-nature for me
Enough food, Enough love and One day she'll see
For know I'll take her spirits with me and others will speak
Enough food, Enough love and One day she'll see
poem by Natasha McGee
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Peanut Butter Lovers
Chocolate,
And marmalade...
Is a taste craved by some.
Who may just rave...
About the flavor that comes.
But...
Those who prefer their peanut butter,
Alone...
Spoon it from a jar protected,
As if its diamonds they own.
Peanut butter,
When it's discovered.
Is loved like nothing other,
To soothe one's secret druthers.
It is licked quick from the lips.
And it isn't there long.
Those addicted to their peanut butter,
Have stacks in their homes.
Oh yes, it's peanut butter...
When it's discovered.
Is loved like nothing other,
To soothe one's secret druthers.
Chocolate,
And marmalade...
Is a taste craved by some.
Who may just rave...
About the flavor that comes.
But it's peanut butter,
Loved like nothing other.
It can make one stutter,
When it is discovered.
Oh yes, it's peanut butter...
When it is discovered.
Is loved like nothing other,
To soothe one's secret druthers.
Those peanut butter lovers,
Are different from the others.
Those peanut butter lovers,
Are different from the others.
Those peanut butter lovers.
Keep your chocolate and that marmalade.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Peanut-Butter Sandwich
I'll sing you a poem of a silly young king
Who played with the world at the end of a string,
But he only loved one single thing—
And that was just a peanut-butter sandwich.
His scepter and his royal gowns,
His regal throne and golden crowns
Were brown and sticky from the mounds
And drippings from each peanut-butter sandwich.
His subjects all were silly fools
For he had passed a royal rule
That all that they could learn in school
Was how to make a peanut-butter sandwich.
He would not eat his sovereign steak,
He scorned his soup and kingly cake,
And told his courtly cook to bake
An extra-sticky peanut-butter sandwich.
And then one day he took a bit
And started chewing with delight,
But found his mouth was stuck quite tight
From that last bite of peanut-butter sandwich.
His brother pulled, his sister pried,
The wizard pushed, his mother cried,
'My boy's committed suicide
From eating his last peanut-butter sandwich!'
The dentist came, and the royal doc.
The royal plumber banged and knocked,
But still those jaws stayed tightly locked.
Oh darn that sticky peanut-butter sandwich!
The carpenter, he tried with pliers,
The telephone man tried with wires,
The firemen, they tried with fire,
But couldn't melt that peanut-butter sandwich.
With ropes and pulleys, drills and coil,
With steam and lubricating oil—
For twenty years of tears and toil—
They fought that awful peanut-butter sandwich.
Then all his royal subjects came.
They hooked his jaws with grapplin' chains
And pulled both ways with might and main
Against that stubborn peanut-butter sandwich.
Each man and woman, girl and boy
Put down their ploughs and pots and toys
And pulled until kerack! Oh, joy—
They broke right through that peanut-butter sandwich
A puff of dust, a screech, a squeak—
The king's jaw opened with a creak.
And then in voice so faint and weak—
The first words that they heard him speak
Were, 'How about a peanut-butter sandwich?'
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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The King's Breakfast
The King's Breakfast
The King asked
The Queen, and
The Queen asked
The Dairymaid:
"Could we have some butter for
The Royal slice of bread?"
The Queen asked the Dairymaid,
The Dairymaid
Said, "Certainly,
I'll go and tell the cow
Now
Before she goes to bed."
The Dairymaid
She curtsied,
And went and told
The Alderney:
"Don't forget the butter for
The Royal slice of bread."
The Alderney
Said sleepily:
"You'd better tell
His Majesty
That many people nowadays
Like marmalade
Instead."
The Dairymaid
Said, "Fancy!"
And went to
Her Majesty.
She curtsied to the Queen, and
She turned a little red:
"Excuse me,
Your Majesty,
For taking of
The liberty,
But marmalade is tasty, if
It's very
Thickly
Spread."
The Queen said
"Oh!:
And went to
His Majesty:
"Talking of the butter for
The royal slice of bread,
Many people
[...] Read more
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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The Auld Wife
PART I
The auld wife sat at her ivied door,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
A thing she had frequently done before;
And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees.
The piper he pip’d on the hill-top high,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
Till the cow said, “I die,” and the goose asked “Why?”
And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas.
The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
His last brew of ale was a trifle hard,
The connection of which with the plot one sees.
The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,
As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.
The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
If you try to approach her away she skips
Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.
The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where,
Which wholly consisted of lines like these.
PART II
She sat with her hands ’neath her dimpled cheeks,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And spake not a word. While a lady speaks
There is hope, but she did n’t even sneeze.
She sat with her hands ’neath her crimson cheeks;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She gave up mending her father’s breeks,
And let the cat roll in her best chemise.
She sat with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And gaz’d at the piper for thirteen weeks;
Then she follow’d him out o’er the misty leas.
Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them,
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Stuart Calverley
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Shortenin Bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Put on the skillet
Slip on the lid
Mammys gonna make us some shortenin bread
And that aint all
Our mammys gonna do
Shes gonna cook us some coffee, too
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
I slipped in the kitchen
Raised up the lid
I stole me a mess o that shortenin bread
I walked up to a pretty girl and I said
Baby howd you like some shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
They caught me with the skillet
They caught me with the lid
They caught me with the girl eatin shortenin bread
Six months for the skillet
Six months for the lid
Now Im doin time for eatin shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Shortenin
Shortenin bread
Shortenin
Shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
Mamas little baby loves shortenin shortenin
Mamas little baby loves shortenin bread
song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. John (Chapter 6)
When Jesus went across the Sea
Of Galilee, a crowd followed;
They saw His miracles on sick;
He ascended the mountain-slope
And sat down with His disciples;
The Feast of Passover was near.
Then Jesus saw a large crowd come;
He asked Philip, ‘Where to buy food? ’
He asked this just to test Philip.
He knew what He’as going to do.
Then Philip replied, ‘Two hundred
Days’ wages worth food wouldn’t suffice.’
Andrew told Jesus, ‘There’s a boy
With barley loaves five and fish two.
It wouldn’t do well for such a crowd.’
Then Jesus told the crowd to rest.
Five thousand people sat on grass.
Then Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks
And had it shared along with fish.
When all had eaten indeed well,
Jesus told, ‘Gather all fragments.’
It was twelve wicker basketsful.
When people saw the miracle,
They accepted Jesus, Prophet-
The one who had come to the world!
They wanted to make Him the king.
So, Jesus withdrew to mountain.
When evening came, they went by boat,
Across the sea to Capernaum.
While traveling, it turned quite dark;
The sea was rough with fierce a wind.
When they had gone three miles off-shore,
They saw Jesus come walk on sea
Towards the boat, and grew afraid.
But Jesus said, ‘It’s I, Don’t fear! ’
They thought Jesus would come aboard;
But suddenly, the boat reached shore!
They realized the next day that
The disciples had come by boat
But Jesus did not come by same!
From Tiberias, other boats came.
As Jesus had not arrived still,
[...] Read more
poem by John Celes
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Today... 'Bread
Manna of Heaven coming from God
walked with us and earths pathways trod.
Come let's taste and see that the Lord is good
and not just settle for plain earthly food
There is Bread that God to mankind did give
So that we might all eat of it and live.
The Body of Christ is that Bread given
The Bread of Life that came down from heaven.
This Bread was stricken and smitten of God
when up the hill of Calvary He trod.
He was wounded and broken there for me
bore the price of sin that I might go free.
I've been to communion with You Lord
Broke the Bread in accordance with Your Word.
No bread of earth tasted so sweet and fair
as the bread I broke supping with You there
Such a feast was set by God before men
sweet Bread and wine laid upon the table then.
Bread broken for iniquities of mine
and into the cup poured the blood red wine
As I broke the bread Lord, I heard You say
'This is my body broken for you that day.'
Then I closed my eyes and I saw You Lord
hanging for me upon the cross of wood.
I heard You cry in pain and agony
Shout 'My God why have you forsaken me.'
Then 'Father forgive them ', I heard You say
for those that drove the nails in deep that day.
Your body bearing the sins of mankind
was wounded for these transgressions of mine.
Bowing Your head becoming Broken Bread
as You bore the wrath of God in my stead.
Broken for me was that Heavenly Bread
for my sins You suffered and You bled.
Wondrous love has been shown my God to me
for I'm saved by Your death at Calvary.
Praise God for the Bread that came from Heaven.
Praise God for the life that He has given.
Grace and mercy He lavished upon me
when the Bread was broken upon that tree.
[...] Read more
poem by Roy Allen
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You Put Your Chocolate In My Peanut Butter!
Hey you, you have too much hair and we dont like what you wear
And you have really bad breath so were gonna beat you to death
Because there is plenty of us and only one of you weve got plenty
Of reasons and heres just a few you put your chocolate in my
Peanut butter I was walking and you were in my way you looked
At me without my permission you never even apologized you put
Your chocolate in my peanut butter thats good enough reason for
Me to bash you put your chocolate in my peanut butter thats good
Enough reason for me to smash no justice / theres just us / so trust us
You put your chocolate in my peanut butter you put your chocolate in
My peanut butter you put your chocolate in my peanut butter you put
Your chocolate in my peanut butter
song performed by NOFX
Added by Lucian Velea
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I eat peanut butter
I eat peanut butter from a jar
Sitting quitly naked at the bar
Wired in frankincense and cheap olive oil
You can never spot where Ive hidden my old boil
I eat peanut butter with a spoon
Hanging on a telophone from the moon
Looking everywhere for the third rock in my drawer
cause I'm followed by the elaphant whose getting rather cold
I taste peanut butter with marmalade
Its sutured with nectrines with astringent taste
Surrounded by a gang of malefactent tea cups
Coming from Buenos Aries on the back of maple syrup
want to ride the posse of little bitty irishmen?
I lick peanut butter from outerspace
I was born southside so it goes to my waist
I lick peanut butter from a dress
Its my wifes who i never met
I take peanut butter to a zoo
Watching the contortions of the Gaia philharmonic
Exasperating riddles which their tvs cant decode
While swimming in the puzzles of a Lincoln camry ford
Bet you wished their was some Peanut butter
to explain this ghastly poem?
poem by Kevin Patrick
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No Butter?
No Butter? (when a country practice monopoly)
“Butter, the chef said, I can’t fry a snitzel without butter? If I use margarine
it gets too salty and tastes like whale, if I use olive oil, it gets a Portuguese
flavour, a snitzel is Austrian. How can you fry an egg without using butter,
one loses the taste of clover and rural idyll, farm yards and chickens looking
for worms? ” ” Sorry the restaurant manager said, but we have no butter,
you gotta use margarine and anyway the guests are not chefs they will not
notice the difference.”The chef looked aghast, put down his ladle and said:
“You can’t mean that, has all my work comes to nothing? ” Took off his apron,
had tears in his eyes, ready to walk out into the cold night and not return.
“Hang on the manager said, without you I can’t run this place, it is the caring
way you prepare food that our guests like you they know there is a butter
shortage, but they don’t mind as long as they now you are the chef.”
Mollified the cook took his apron back on lifted his ladle and said, “Ok, but
see if you can get some butter even if you have to buy it from the Danes.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Jar Of Peanut Butter
You, Me, And A Jar of Peanut Butter
Friday, April 10,2009
Barren landscape spread shore to shore
Passages opened an unspoiled door
Covered now fertile grounds with peanut butter
Succulent tender treat sounds you now mutter
Cries delight the more you utter
Crazy I know but do I stutter?
Warm yet juicy passion’s pink
Youthful fountains from hence I drink
Dinning on fruits garnished sweet little kitten
Taste no haste love bug now I’ve been bitten
Speaking words I’ve never heard
Singing softly the mocking bird
Peaches delight and O’ so eatable
Quite the storm you are so incredible
I so like the taste of peanut butter
So the much for hearts do flutter
As I rub it on your smooth belly
Added now it too guava jelly
Sandwich made sounding fallacious
Elegant debutant our lady gracious
O’ I love it the peanut butter banquet
Feasting cause wires to short circuit
Clear wrapping covers beautiful flowers
Mine to embrace and massage for hours
Nestled peanut butter between airspace
Extricated by tongue from a secret place
Removed I did from her sweetshop
Finished now I shed a teardrop
Lapped ever morsel up like an animal
Feeding time for this fine young cannibal
Concluded clambake of visitation conjugal transience
Feasted on bounty of such magnificence
How I love to ingest peanut butter
A thought shakes me makes me shutter
Listen up for concise I speak and never I stutter
Zesty, testy, smooth, and creamy peanut butter
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Consider It Done
Consider it done.
Done.
Done.
Done.
Consider it done.
Done.
Done.
Done.
Consider it done.
Done.
Done.
Done.
Consider it done.
Consider it done.
Getting near a fiscal cliff,
And knowing of it.
But...
ignoring all the warnings,
Or it there to exist...
To feed an addiction to greed,
Regardless of the risks.
Well...
Consider it done.
Your feeding.
Done.
And with a greeding.
Done.
Consider it done.
Done.
Done.
Done.
Consider it done.
The feast.
Consider it done.
That feast depleted,
With a wish for more to eat...
Is done!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Odyssey: Book 17
When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared,
Telemachus bound on his sandals and took a strong spear that suited
his hands, for he wanted to go into the city. "Old friend," said he to
the swineherd, "I will now go to the town and show myself to my
mother, for she will never leave off grieving till she has seen me. As
for this unfortunate stranger, take him to the town and let him beg
there of any one who will give him a drink and a piece of bread. I
have trouble enough of my own, and cannot be burdened with other
people. If this makes him angry so much the worse for him, but I
like to say what I mean."
Then Ulysses said, "Sir, I do not want to stay here; a beggar can
always do better in town than country, for any one who likes can
give him something. I am too old to care about remaining here at the
beck and call of a master. Therefore let this man do as you have
just told him, and take me to the town as soon as I have had a warm by
the fire, and the day has got a little heat in it. My clothes are
wretchedly thin, and this frosty morning I shall be perished with
cold, for you say the city is some way off."
On this Telemachus strode off through the yards, brooding his
revenge upon the When he reached home he stood his spear against a
bearing-post of the cloister, crossed the stone floor of the
cloister itself, and went inside.
Nurse Euryclea saw him long before any one else did. She was putting
the fleeces on to the seats, and she burst out crying as she ran up to
him; all the other maids came up too, and covered his head and
shoulders with their kisses. Penelope came out of her room looking
like Diana or Venus, and wept as she flung her arms about her son. She
kissed his forehead and both his beautiful eyes, "Light of my eyes,"
she cried as she spoke fondly to him, "so you are come home again; I
made sure I was never going to see you any more. To think of your
having gone off to Pylos without saying anything about it or obtaining
my consent. But come, tell me what you saw."
"Do not scold me, mother,' answered Telemachus, "nor vex me,
seeing what a narrow escape I have had, but wash your face, change
your dress, go upstairs with your maids, and promise full and
sufficient hecatombs to all the gods if Jove will only grant us our
revenge upon the suitors. I must now go to the place of assembly to
invite a stranger who has come back with me from Pylos. I sent him
on with my crew, and told Piraeus to take him home and look after
him till I could come for him myself."
She heeded her son's words, washed her face, changed her dress,
and vowed full and sufficient hecatombs to all the gods if they
would only vouchsafe her revenge upon the suitors.
Telemachus went through, and out of, the cloisters spear in hand-
not alone, for his two fleet dogs went with him. Minerva endowed him
with a presence of such divine comeliness that all marvelled at him as
he went by, and the suitors gathered round him with fair words in
their mouths and malice in their hearts; but he avoided them, and went
to sit with Mentor, Antiphus, and Halitherses, old friends of his
father's house, and they made him tell them all that had happened to
[...] Read more
poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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Bread Hair
Im a wigged-out daddy with bread on top
I dig an easy-bake granny with a whiskey mop
If you love me, you neednt the whole wheat crop
cause they had a useless battle andll never stop
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Im a pumpernickel-do for you, dough you do
Use a yarmulka of hallah bread if youre a jew
I belong to cayope*, I be the wheat for you
Yeast and flour, bake an hour, its annoying shampoo
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Drivin all my hope away
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Thats a gone rug, buddy
song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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Dreamworks
DREAMWORKS
Eyes saw reflection Monday, when World War II was won,
emerging, letters learning, to betters bowed, begun
a journey spread like butter upon life’s bread, which seems
to be about to stutter before landlord of dreams.
Eye Tuesday schooled, life's masquerade began to understand
how letters strung together rung bells brain took in hand,
soft strength no bitter toil required to channel patterned streams,
blood flood no rudder needed to feed forever's dreams.
Eyes which advanced one Wednesday upon emotions’ tide
to woo, to win, together, as groom to beauty bride,
felt joys would last for ever, like strawberries and cream,
tapped hope's sap, never'd sever eternity from dreams.
Eyes which in turn one Thursday sired fruit so well desired,
who queried much, yet stayed untouched by vain ambitions tired,
felt feelings frank, not clever, that seek 'together's' gleams,
to sow, reap, harvest, gather the essence of shared dreams.
Eyes which Friday celebrate, see seed to stripling strong
stretch skywards, never hesitate, sift just from wrong's pronged tongs,
subjective views eliminate, zest tests through searchlight beams,
shows all may know glow grows, fair flows, to feed tomorrow’s dreams.
Eyes weary on this Saturday sense Winter drawing near,
reach through rhyme’s interplay to transmit loud and clear
before Time’s ‘weak~end’ weather may ravage, mock soul’s gleams,
this theme: ~ that one should never compromise on dreams.
Eyes which one Sunday may pass away, life legacy would leave:
ideals unbetrayed, pray none know poison, prison, grieve.
Life's cycle turns as candle burns, warms all within its beams, ~
road cats' eyes snake, make no mistake, tomorrow takes your dreams...
9 May 2005 minor modifications 21 April 2008 revised 30 April 2008,8 March 2011
for previous versions see below
DREAMWORKS
Eyes saw first light one Monday, when World War II was won,
emerging, letters learning, to betters bowed, begun
a journey spread like butter upon life’s bread, which seems
to be about to stutter before landlord of dreams.
Eyes which were schooled one Tuesday began to understand
how letters strung together rung bells brain took in hand,
soft strength no conscious effort to channel patterned streams
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Panegyric Of The Dean In The Person Of A Lady In The North
Resolved my gratitude to show,
Thrice reverend Dean, for all I owe,
Too long I have my thanks delay'd;
Your favours left too long unpaid;
But now, in all our sex's name,
My artless Muse shall sing your fame.
Indulgent you to female kind,
To all their weaker sides are blind:
Nine more such champions as the Dean
Would soon restore our ancient reign;
How well to win the ladies' hearts,
You celebrate their wit and parts!
How have I felt my spirits raised,
By you so oft, so highly praised!
Transform'd by your convincing tongue
To witty, beautiful, and young,
I hope to quit that awkward shame,
Affected by each vulgar dame,
To modesty a weak pretence;
And soon grow pert on men of sense;
To show my face with scornful air;
Let others match it if they dare.
Impatient to be out of debt,
O, may I never once forget
The bard who humbly deigns to chuse
Me for the subject of his Muse!
Behind my back, before my nose,
He sounds my praise in verse and prose.
My heart with emulation burns,
To make you suitable returns;
My gratitude the world shall know;
And see, the printer's boy below;
Ye hawkers all, your voices lift;
'A Panegyric on Dean Swift!'
And then, to mend the matter still,
'By Lady Anne of Market-Hill!'
I thus begin: My grateful Muse
Salutes the Dean in different views;
Dean, butler, usher, jester, tutor;
Robert and Darby's coadjutor;
And, as you in commission sit,
To rule the dairy next to Kit;
In each capacity I mean
To sing your praise. And first as Dean:
Envy must own, you understand your
Precedence, and support your grandeur:
Nor of your rank will bate an ace,
Except to give Dean Daniel place.
In you such dignity appears,
So suited to your state and years!
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poem by Jonathan Swift
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