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Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang [Nanny McPhee Explains How She Works to the Kids]

Cast: Emma Thompson

clip from Nanny McPhee Returns, directed by Christianna Brand, screenplay by Susanna White (2010)
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Henry And Emma. A Poem.

Upon the Model of The Nut-Brown Maid. To Cloe.

Thou, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command
(Though low my voice, though artless be my hand.
I take the sprightly reed, and sing and play,
Careless of what the censuring world may say;
Bright Cloe! object of my constant vow,
Wilt thou a while unbend thy serious brow?
Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's strains,
And with one heavenly smile o'erpay his pains?
No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old,
Though since her youth three hundred years have roll'd:
At thy desire she shall again be raised,
And her reviving charms in lasting verse be praised.

No longer man of woman shall complain,
That he may love and not be loved again;
That we in vain the fickle sex pursue,
Who change the constant lover for the new.
Whatever has been writ, whatever said
Henceforth shall in my verse refuted stand,
Be said to winds, or writ upon the sand:
And while my notes to future times proclaim
Unconquer'd love and ever-during flame,
O, fairest of the sex, be thou my muse;
Deign on my work thy influence to diffuse:
Let me partake the blessings I rehearse,
And grant me love, the just reward of verse.

As beauty's potent queen with every grace
That once was Emma's has adorn'd thy face,
And as her son has to my bosom dealt
That constant flame which faithful Henry felt,
O let the story with thy life agree,
Let men once more the bright example see;
What Emma was to him be thou to me:
Nor send me by thy frown from her I love,
Distant and sad, a banish'd man to rove:
But, oh! with pity long entreated crown
My pains and hopes: and when thou say'st that one
Of all mankind thou lovest, oh! think on me alone.

Where beauteous Isis and her husband Thame
With mingled waves for ever flow the same,
In times of yore an ancient baron lived,
Great gifts bestowed, and great respect received.

When dreadful Edward, with successful care
Led his free Britons to the Gallic war,

[...] Read more

poem by Matthew Prior
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Take Me Home

Theres no place I call height, theres no way in a mean street,
Theres no high, low or medium, theres no little be.
So do your searching, until youre down, then realise, youre on your home ground
(echo off)
Sitting in a white room, dreaming of a life, (emma)
You have got me thinking, what is paradise. (emma)
Should I take an ocean drive, cooling from the sun, (emma)
Silver screen got me thinkin this is how it should be done. (emma)
Take me home, theres no place Id a rather be now, yeah,
Take me home, theres no place Id a rather be now, yeah.
Stand together alone, not knowing who you are, (emma)
Friendly strangely strangely friendly, would you keep me warm? (emma)
Would you keep me warm? you now, you could be your paradise,
Talk and keep me warm (emma), you could have youre own dream life,
Step into your comfort side, comfort side.
Take me home, theres no place Id a rather be now, yeah,
Take me home, theres no place Id a rather be now, yeah.
(echo next 4 lines in background (emma) )
There nobody to take me home, cause Im here, yes where I belong,
Im nearly, cause Im on my way, at my home it will always stay.
There nobody to take me home, cause Im here, yes where I belong,
Im nearly, cause Im on my way, at my home it will always stay.
So all thats free falling falls, hangs, out of time,
Youve got yours, Ive got mine, should all this be so precious?
Maybe I should be a little humble? slate of fear, cause I could stumble.
So do your searching until your down, cause your on home ground.
(echo off)
(continuous echo: take take take take me home, take take take me home..(emma) )
Take me home, theres no place Id a rather be now, yeah
Take me home, theres no place Id a rather be now, yeah
(repeat last 2 lines x3 and fade )

song performed by Geri Halliwell
Added by Lucian Velea
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Macbreath

A Tragedy as Played at Ryde**
Macbreath Mr Henley
Macpuff Mr Terry
The Ghost

ACT I

TIME: The day before the election
SCENE: A Drummoyne tram running past a lunatic asylum.
All present are Reform Leaguers and supporters of Macbreath.
They seat themselves in the compartment.

MACBREATH: Here, I'll sit in the midst.
Be large in mirth. Anon we'll all be fitted
With Parliamentary seats.
(Voter approaches the door.)
There's blood upon thy face.

VOTER: 'Tis Thompsons's, then.

MACBREATH: Is he thrown out? How neatly we beguiled
The guileless Thompson. Did he sign a pledge agreeing to retire?

VOTER: Aye, that he did.

MACBREATH: Not so did I!
Not on the doubtful hazard of a vote
By Ryde electors, cherry-pickers, oafs,
That drive their market carts at dread of night
And sleep all day. Not on the jaundiced choice
Of folks who daily run their half a mile
Just after breakfast, when the steamer hoots
Her warning to the laggard, not on these
Relied Macbreath, for if these rustics' choice
Had fall'n on Thompson, I should still have claimed
A conference. But hold! Is Thompson out?

VOTER: My lord, his name is mud. That I did for him
I paid my shilling and I cast my vote.

MACBREATH: Thou art the best of all the shilling voters.
Prithee, be near me on election day
To see me smite Macpuff, and now we shan't
Be long,
(Ghost of Thompson appears.)
What's this? A vision!
Thou canst not say I did it! Never shake
Thy gory locks at me. Run for some other seat,
Let the woods hide thee. Prithee, chase thyself!
(The ghost of Thompson disappears, and Macbreath revives himself

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Tale of Emma Chissett - for Dan Dan the Betcha Man

Emma Chissett’s
missed out lunch;
she’s suffering
a credit crunch;

Emma Chissett
checks out who
today is offering
three-for-two;

Emma checks
the cornbeef tins
in those illegal
‘sell by’ bins;

finds ‘eat by’ dates
passed (hard to see..):
mentions this;
and gets them free;

Emma’s icebox
shelves for meat
holds tougher cuts:
chew first, then eat..

Emma’s sharp eye
spots bruised fruit;
negotiates
a price to suit;

Emma does
these shops a good turn:
avoids some angry
customer return;

she’s there before
every Church bazaar:
spots the mispriced
from afar;

turns the expensive
fashion gown
to show the tear or stain;
brings the price right down;

and woe betide
a market stall:
‘emmachissett? ’..
and prices fall..

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Better, Deeper, More Intelligent

Better, deeper, more intelligent,
and sensitive than us, Jane Austen
provides a literary environment
in which we all, by getting lost in
admiration for her heroines,
feel so diminished we conclude
whichever of the many heroes wins
their heart is an unlucky dude.

Riding with her, dressed by Abercombie
and Fitch is not the sort of way
I’d like to spend my time. I’m not a zombie.
Perhaps because I am not gay
I can’t relate to all the topics Jane
obsesses on, and in Northanger
Abbey heroines would all complain
I was a crashing bore and wanker.

“Why couldn’t all these heroines go out
and get a job? ” was asked by Emma––
not Jane’s, Ms. Thompson’s Emma, without doubt
a heroine who’s not a femi-
nist––oh horrid word––but understands
how prejudice which is their pride
lands nearly all of them in Jane’s badlands
composed of English countryside.

Who needs a woman who is deeper than
themselves, far better, surely, and
far more intelligent? I’m not that man.
Although I think I understand
what all her heroines are saying, I
don’t look for girls who're good or deep.
I’m merely looking for the sort who’ll lie
with me before I fall asleep.

Inspired by an article by Jennifer Schuessler on “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, ” by Seth Grahame-Smith (“I Was a Regency Zombie, ” NYT, February 22,2009) :

The classic examples of that would be any speech by Judi Dench — her accent certainly helps — or Emma Thompson’s understated, wryly funny acceptance speech at the 1996 Oscars, when she won the award for best adapted screenplay for “Sense and Sensibility.”
“Before I came, I went to visit Jane Austen’s grave in Winchester Cathedral to pay my respects, you know, and tell her about the grosses, ” she said. She also thanked Sidney Pollack “for asking the right questions, like, ‘Why couldn’t these women go out and get a job? ’ ” Ms. Thompson — who accepted another award, at the Golden Globes, with a speech in the style of Jane Austen herself — then did what cool British award winners do: she put the Oscar in her guest bathroom.

These days, America is menaced by zombie banks and zombie computers. What’s next, a zombie Jane Austen? In fact, yes. Minor pandemonium ensued in the blogosphere this month after Quirk Books announced the publication of “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, ” an edition of Austen’s classic juiced up with “all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie mayhem” by a Los Angeles television writer named Seth Grahame-Smith. (First line: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.”) … In fact, “Pride and Prejudice” may already be a zombie novel, contends Brad Pasanek, a specialist in 18th-century literature at the University of Virginia. “The characters other than the protagonist are so often surrounded by people who aren’t fully human, like machines that keep repeating the same things over and over again, ” Professor Pasanek said. “All those characters shuffling in and out of scenes, always frustrating the protagonists. It’s a crowded but eerie landscape. What’s wrong with those people? They don’t dance well but move in jerky fits. Oh, they are headed this way! ” While the vast industry of Austen sequels and pastiches runs heavily toward the romance-novel end of the literary spectrum - see “The Private Diary of Mr. Darcy” by Maya Slater, to be published in the United States in June - scholars have long emphasized the mean-girl side of Jane’s personality. Professor Pasanek, who has collaborated on a project that uses spam-detection software to analyze Austen fan fiction, cites the psychologist D. W. Harding’s 1940 essay “Regulated Hatred, ” which sounds more like a death-metal band than a piece of influential Austen scholarship.“Most people try to ignore the fact that Austen’s novels are sort of acid baths, ” Professor Pasanek said. “She’s so much better, deeper, more sensitive and intelligent than everyone around her that she has to regulate her own misanthropy. Her novels are hostile environments.”

2/22/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Bumper To Bumper

Ill beep my horn for you, bumper 2 bumper, give way Im coming through,
Id give my heart for you, bumper 2 bumper, give way Im coming through.
Driving through the city, (d)getting nitty gritty,
Looking for a place to go, ( yeah. ) girls are feeling risky, (aah)
Feelin kinda frisky, ( giggle (emma) ) come on baby let me go.
Move over, move over, youre driving me reckless, (emma)
Bumper to give me, alright youre gonna get this, (emma)
Bumper 2 bumper, bumper 2 bumper, I want t drive your body all night
I want a back seat lover, all right.
Dont do that!
Id give my heart for you, bumper 2 bumper,
Give way Im coming through, bumper 2 bumper.
Id give my heart for you, bumper 2 bumper,
Cant take my eyes off you, bumper 2, oh ( bumper. )
Looking but no stopping, ( stopping, (emma) ) only window shopping,
Less youve got some goods to show, dont tell us that youre dirty,
Only being flirty, tops off and down and here we go!
Ohh!
Your lover, your lover, youre driving me reckless, (emma)
Bumper to give me, alright youre gonna get this, (emma)
Bumper 2 bumper, bumper 2 bumper, I want t drive your body all night
I want a back seat lover, all right. dont do that
Id give my heart for you, bumper 2 bumper,
Give way Im coming through, bumper 2 bumper.
Id give my heart for you, bumper 2 bumper,
Cant take my eyes off you, bumper 2, bumper.
Bumper!
Bumper 2 bumper,
Driving into the sunshine, driving into the sunshine,
Bumper!
Driving into the sunshine, driving into the sunshine,
Driving into the sunshine.
Dont do that!
(echo off)
Id give my heart for you, bumper 2 bumper,
Give way Im coming through, bumper 2 bumper.
Id give my heart for you, bumper 2 bumper,
Cant take my eyes off you, bumper 2, bumper.
Id give my heart for you, bumper 2 bumper,
Give way Im coming through, bumper 2 bumper
Id give my heart for you, bumper 2 bumper,
Cant take my eyes off you, bumper 2 bumper.
Id give my heart for you, bumper 2 bumper,
Give way Im coming through, bumper 2 bumper.
(repeat and fade last 2 lines)

song performed by Geri Halliwell
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Student's Tale; Emma and Eginhard

When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne,
In the free schools of Aix, how kings should reign,
And with them taught the children of the poor
How subjects should be patient and endure,
He touched the lips of some, as best befit,
With honey from the hives of Holy Writ;
Others intoxicated with the wine
Of ancient history, sweet but less divine;
Some with the wholesome fruits of grammar fed;
Others with mysteries of the stars o'er-head,
That hang suspended in the vaulted sky
Like lamps in some fair palace vast and high.
In sooth, it was a pleasant sight to see
That Saxon monk, with hood and rosary,
With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and book,
And mingled lore and reverence in his look,
Or hear the cloister and the court repeat
The measured footfalls of his sandaled feet,
Or watch him with the pupils of his school,
Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule.

Among them, always earliest in his place.
Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race,
Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun
The splendors of a yet unrisen sun.
To him all things were possible, and seemed
Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed,
And what were tasks to others were his play,
The pastime of an idle holiday.

Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said,
With many a shrug and shaking of the head,
Surely some demon must possess the lad,
Who showed more wit than ever schoolboy had,
And learned his Trivium thus without the rod;
But Alcuin said it was the grace of God.

Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device,
Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice;
Science of Numbers, Geometric art,
And lore of Stars, and Music knew by heart;
A Minnesinger, long before the times
Of those who sang their love in Suabian rhymes.

The Emperor, when he heard this good report
Of Eginhard much buzzed about the court,
Said to himself, 'This stripling seems to be
Purposely sent into the world for me;
He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled
In all the arts whereby the world is ruled.'

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Squire Hawkins's Story

I hain't no hand at tellin' tales,
Er spinnin' yarns, as the sailors say;
Someway o' 'nother, language fails
To slide fer me in the oily way
That LAWYERS has; and I wisht it would,
Fer I've got somepin' that I call good;
But bein' only a country squire,
I've learned to listen and admire,
Ruther preferrin' to be addressed
Than talk myse'f--but I'll do my best:--

Old Jeff Thompson--well, I'll say,
Was the clos'test man I ever saw!--
Rich as cream, but the porest pay,
And the meanest man to work fer--La!
I've knowed that man to work one 'hand'--
Fer little er nothin', you understand--
From four o'clock in the morning light
Tel eight and nine o'clock at night,
And then find fault with his appetite!
He'd drive all over the neighberhood
To miss the place where a toll-gate stood,
And slip in town, by some old road
That no two men in the county knowed,
With a jag o' wood, and a sack o' wheat,
That wouldn't burn and you couldn't eat!
And the trades he'd make, 'll I jest de-clare,
Was enough to make a preacher swear!
And then he'd hitch, and hang about
Tel the lights in the toll-gate was blowed out,
And then the turnpike he'd turn in
And sneak his way back home ag'in!

Some folks hint, and I make no doubt,
That that's what wore his old wife out--
Toilin' away from day to day
And year to year, through heat and cold,
Uncomplainin'--the same old way
The martyrs died in the days of old;
And a-clingin', too, as the martyrs done,
To one fixed faith, and her ONLY one,--
Little Patience, the sweetest child
That ever wept unrickonciled,
Er felt the pain and the ache and sting
That only a mother's death can bring.

Patience Thompson!--I think that name
Must 'a' come from a power above,
Fer it seemed to fit her jest the same
As a GAITER would, er a fine kid glove!

[...] Read more

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Canute the Great

I'll tell of Canute, King of England,
A native of Denmark was he,
His hobbies was roving and raiding
And paddling his feet in the sea.

By trade he were what's called a Viking,
Every summer he'd visit our shore,
Help himself to whatever he wanted,
And come back in the autumn for more.

These trips always showed him a profit,
But what stumped him to know was this 'ere...
Where the English folk got all the money,
He came and took off them each year.

After duly considering the matter,
He concluded as how his best course,
Were to have an invasion of England,
And tap the supply at its source.

He got other Vikings to join him,
With a promise of plunder and spoil,
And raked up atrocity stories,
To bring all their blood to the boil.

They landed one morning at Weymouth,
And waited for fight to begin,
While their foe, Ethelred the Unready,
Found his army and got it fell in.

When the battle were done, Crown of England,
Changed heads, so the history book states,
From Ethelred's seven-and-a-quarter,
To King Canutes six-and-five-eights.

The Vikings was cheered as the winners,
Ethelred, he went somewhere and died,
And Canute, to his lasting atonement...
Made the widow, Queen Emma, his bride.

She started to teach him his manners,
To drink without wetting his nose,
Put his hand to his mouth and say "Pardon!",
Every time the occasion arose.

She said his companions was vulgar,
His habits more easy than free,
Made him promise no more to disgrace her,
By paddling his feet in the sea.

[...] Read more

poem by Marriott Edgar
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The Meyerowitz Stories

Cast: Adam Sandler, Grace Van Patten, Dustin Hoffman, Elizabeth Marvel, Emma Thompson, Danny Flaherty, Adam David Thompson, Judd Hirsch, Rebecca Miller, Sigourney Weaver

trailer for The Meyerowitz Stories, directed by Noah Baumbach, screenplay by Noah Baumbach (2017)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Beauty and the Beast

Cast: Emma Watson, Dan Stevens, Luke Evans, Gugu Mbatha-Raw, Ewan McGregor, Stanley Tucci, Emma Thompson, Ian McKellen, Kevin Kline

trailer for Beauty and the Beast, directed by Bill Condon, screenplay, inspired by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve (2016)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Beauty and the Beast [trailer 2]

Cast: Emma Watson, Dan Stevens, Luke Evans, Gugu Mbatha-Raw, Ewan McGregor, Stanley Tucci, Emma Thompson, Ian McKellen, Kevin Kline

trailer for Beauty and the Beast, directed by Bill Condon, screenplay, inspired by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve (2016)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Disney's Cruella

Cast: Emma Stone, Mark Strong, Emma Thompson, Paul Walter Hauser, Emily Beecham, Joel Fry, Kirby Howell-Baptiste, Jamie Demetriou, John McCrea

trailer for Disney's Cruella, directed by Craig Gillespie, screenplay, inspired by Dodie Smith (2021)
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The Clergyman’s First Tale: Love is Fellow-service

A youth and maid upon a summer night
Upon the lawn, while yet the skies were light,
Edmund and Emma, let their names be these,
Among the shrubs within the circling trees,
Joined in a game with boys and girls at play:
For games perhaps too old a little they;
In April she her eighteenth year begun,
And twenty he, and near to twenty-one.
A game it was of running and of noise;
He as a boy, with other girls and boys
(Her sisters and her brothers), took the fun;
And when her turn, she marked not, came to run,
‘Emma,’ he called, then knew that he was wrong,
Knew that her name to him did not belong.
Her look and manner proved his feeling true,
A child no more, her womanhood she knew;
Half was the colour mounted on her face,
Her tardy movement had an adult grace.
Vexed with himself, and shamed, he felt the more
A kind of joy he ne’er had felt before.
Something there was that from this date began;
’Twas beautiful with her to be a man.

Two years elapsed, and he who went and came,
Changing in much, in this appeared the same;
The feeling, if it did not greatly grow,
Endured and was not wholly hid below.
He now, o’ertasked at school, a serious boy,
A sort of after-boyhood to enjoy
Appeared in vigour and in spirit high
And manly grown, but kept the boy’s soft eye:
And full of blood, and strong and lithe of limb,
To him ’twas pleasure now to ride, to swim;
The peaks, the glens, the torrents tempted him.
Restless he seemed, long distances would walk,
And lively was, and vehement in talk.
A wandering life his life had lately been,
Books he had read, the world had little seen.
One former frailty haunted him, a touch
Of something introspective overmuch.
With all his eager motions still there went
A self-correcting and ascetic bent,
That from the obvious good still led astray,
And set him travelling on the longest way;
Seen in these scattered notes their date that claim
When first his feeling conscious sought a name.
‘Beside the wishing gate which so they name,
’Mid northern hills to me this fancy came,
A wish I formed, my wish I thus expressed:
Would I could wish my wishes all to rest,

[...] Read more

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough from Mari Magno or Tales on Board
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Presentiment

"Sister, you've sat there all the day,
Come to the hearth awhile;
The wind so wildly sweeps away,
The clouds so darkly pile.
That open book has lain, unread,
For hours upon your knee;
You've never smiled nor turned your head;
What can you, sister, see?"

"Come hither, Jane, look down the field;
How dense a mist creeps on!
The path, the hedge, are both concealed,
Ev'n the white gate is gone
No landscape through the fog I trace,
No hill with pastures green;
All featureless is Nature's face.
All masked in clouds her mien.

"Scarce is the rustle of a leaf
Heard in our garden now;
The year grows old, its days wax brief,
The tresses leave its brow.
The rain drives fast before the wind,
The sky is blank and grey;
O Jane, what sadness fills the mind
On such a dreary day!"

"You think too much, my sister dear;
You sit too long alone;
What though November days be drear?
Full soon will they be gone.
I've swept the hearth, and placed your chair,.
Come, Emma, sit by me;
Our own fireside is never drear,
Though late and wintry wane the year,
Though rough the night may be."

"The peaceful glow of our fireside
Imparts no peace to me:
My thoughts would rather wander wide
Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.
I'm on a distant journey bound,
And if, about my heart,
Too closely kindred ties were bound,
'Twould break when forced to part.

"'Soon will November days be o'er:'
Well have you spoken, Jane:
My own forebodings tell me more--
For me, I know by presage sure,

[...] Read more

poem by Charlotte Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Storyteller Emma Jean

I’m wearing a sparkling blue ring,
from precious Mother Emma Jean.
This ring gives me power to storytell,
Emma Jean told stories and she did it well.
Now she told a story I will never forget,
she weaves the story of the “Headless Horseman”.
telling her story in Missouri at a really young age,
better then Grimm’s Fairy Tales writes it on the page.
Her voice changes in fluctuation and stance,
weaving words like a rhythmic dance.
Even though Emma Jean’s gone,
I will tell her stories so they will live on.
Written by Christina Sunrise on Feb.15,2011

poem by Christina Sunrise
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Storyteller Emma Jean

I’m wearing a sparkling blue ring,

from precious Mother Emma Jean.

This ring gives me power to storytell,

Emma Jean told stories and she did it well.

Now she told a story I will never forget,

she weaves the story of the “Headless Horseman”.

telling her story in Missouri at a really young age,

better then Grimm’s Fairy Tales writes it on the page.

Her voice changes in fluctuation and stance,

weaving words like a rhythmic dance.

Even though Emma Jean’s gone,

I will tell her stories so they will live on.

Written by Christina Sunrise on Feb.15,2011

poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Rockabilly Gal

(thompson)
Hayden thompson and slim rhodes (sun, 1957)
Rockabilly gal, runnin after crazy rhythm
Rockabilly gal, woo-hoo-hoo
Rockabilly gal, runnin after crazy rhythm
Rockabilly gal, please come back to me
Last night a certain rockabilly singer came to town
My gal says that shed like to hear his crazy rhythm sound
So we went down to see him and he shook her up for sure
cause today hes gone and my heather, she is following his tour
Rockabilly gal, runnin after crazy rhythm
Rockabilly gal, woo-hoo-hoo
Rockabilly gal, runnin after crazy rhythm
Rockabilly gal, please come back to me
This guy was just a hillbilly singer at the start
But when he added rock n roll he tore the place apart
The moment my gal heard him, youd swear an earthquake begins
She started with a-itchin and a-twakin, then got up and ran

song performed by Roy Orbison
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Borough. Letter XII: Players

These are monarchs none respect,
Heroes, yet an humbled crew,
Nobles, whom the crowd correct,
Wealthy men, whom duns pursue;
Beauties shrinking from the view
Of the day's detecting eye;
Lovers, who with much ado
Long-forsaken damsels woo,
And heave the ill-feign'd sigh.

These are misers, craving means
Of existence through the day,
Famous scholars, conning scenes
Of a dull bewildering play;
Ragged beaux and misses gray,
Whom the rabble praise and blame,
Proud and mean, and sad and gay,
Toiling after ease, are they,
Infamous, and boasting fame.

DRAWN by the annual call, we now behold
Our Troop Dramatic, heroes known of old,
And those, since last they march'd, enlisted and

enrolled:
Mounted on hacks or borne in waggons some,
The rest on foot (the humbler brethren) come.
Three favour'd places, an unequal time,
Join to support this company sublime:
Ours for the longer period--see how light
Yon parties move, their former friends in sight,
Whose claims are all allow'd, and friendship glads

the night.
Now public rooms shall sound with words divine,
And private lodgings hear how heroes shine;
No talk of pay shall yet on pleasure steal,
But kindest welcome bless the friendly meal;
While o'er the social jug and decent cheer,
Shall be described the fortunes of the year.
Peruse these bills, and see what each can do, -
Behold! the prince, the slave, the monk, the Jew;
Change but the garment, and they'll all engage
To take each part, and act in every age:
Cull'd from all houses, what a house are they!
Swept from all barns, our Borough-critics say;
But with some portion of a critic's ire,
We all endure them; there are some admire:
They might have praise, confined to farce alone;
Full well they grin, they should not try to groan;

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poem by George Crabbe
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Black Angel

Black Angel
(By Sheila D. Thompson)

ok, ok, I landed on this earth to kill
look at me,
cause once you cross me your fate will be sealed.
People think it's a laughing,
thing it's a joke, next
thing they lay dead before me.
And I think I'll choke.
I lived a hard life.
I know I don't suppose to be a girl,
in this world, this place could
change the kindest creature to
a beast.
I became a cannibal, and I like it I came
here on a quest to feast.
Now I can't stop.
going crazy at day and
sane by night,
I guess that's why I hide in the
darkness from light.
Black Angel (Black Angel)
Black Angel (molded by the world)
Black Angel (and just only
a little girl) Black Angel
(crying for a change) Black Angel

I listen to thunder and lightening,
forget that it's frightening, liking
the sound, watching the people
up from above, knowing there no
love.
I stand alone, I'm on my own,

I am young so I write my
pain in this song.
I know it's hard try being
a little a girl,
raised up fast in a cruel
world.
fate was ever kind to me.
I watched my father
(hurt my mother)
I watched my father
(beat m brother)
I watched my father
(create a son with my sister)
I miss my father(and I love him)

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poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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