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Larry Hagman

I'm not well versed on the verbiage of the internet.

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Surprise in Japan - Using Chopsticks

the Japanese says
he's surprised I use
chopsticks too

I thought everybody knows Chopsticks orgiinated in China and spread around from there. So I was very surprised when several Japanese expressed surprise that I can use chopsticks. Perhaps, they are not well versed in the history of chopsticks.

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I Vex Me Not With Brooding on the Years

I vex me not with brooding on the years
That were ere I drew breath; why should I then
Distrust the darkness that may fall again
When life is done? Perchance in other spheres--
Dead planets--I once tasted mortal tears,
And walked as now among a throng of men,
Pondering things that lay beyond my ken,
Questioning death, and solacing my fears.
Offtimes indeed strange sense I have of this,
Vague memories that hold me with a spell,
Touches of unseen lips upon my brow,
Breathing some incommunicable bliss!
In years foregone, O soul, was all not well?
Still lovelier life awaits thee. Fear not thou!

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William Shakespeare

Sonnet 139: O, call not me to justify the wrong

O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;
Use power with power, and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere, but in my sight,
Dear heart forbear to glance thine eye aside;
What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my o'erpressed defence can bide?
Let me excuse thee: "Ah, my love well knows,
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries."
Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.

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Why Have You Not Written Anything About the Jews?

Why have you not written anything about the Jews?

'Nothing about them motivates me to do so.'

They may regard that as anti-semitic.

'Have I expressed any hostilities? '


'Any sense of discrimination? '


'Have I expressed anything against them...
As a religious, ethnic or racial group? '

Not at all.
They may regard that as anti-semitic.
Your nonchalance about their existence.

'Oh, please!
As a black man,
There is enough in my history for me to cry 'wolf'.
And use that as a means to scream 'discrimination'.
And they are good depicting themselves as victims,
Without the assistance of my input!
With the use of the media,
They have marketed their sufferings very well.
And everyone knows the black 'man' is the most hated,
On this planet.

And you don't think those comments,
Would be regarded as anti-semitic?

'I 'think' you are insisting an anti-semiticness.
For reasons to satisfy a campaign you'd like to address.
When everywhere there is a genocide affecting the lives,
Of black folks who have been denied their rights.
Those who have chosen to keep their eyes open,
Can see that.

With resources stolen from their lands...
To benefit the lives of those who choose
To call themselves white.
Or those who choose to comfortably pass.

I am in no mood to be anti-semitic.
Nor to be baited to debate in ignorance with you.'

Humanity is being destroyed by those insecure.
And you have no comments about that?

'Is this how you go about initiating conflict? '

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Patrick White

You're Not Mad Enough

You’re not mad enough to understand my poetry.
Suffering hasn’t twisted you into strange shapes
like a hangman’s apprentice
practising knots with your spine
or driven your innocence out into the desert
like a scape-goat for the sins of others
until you had mastered their evil
and become a great devil
condemned to do good
as if it were the most exquisite torment
of the damned.
You’ve never stood like an exile
at a sleepless window
and listened to the night rain
speaking in a foreign language.
Your electrons have never
been bumped out of their orbitals
like the photonic refugees
of a radioactive element
with half an afterlife
that can see in the dark
and last for millions of years.
What tongue-tied tuning fork
of a pygmy atom
like the emperor of Austria to Mozart
seeing a galaxy
or hearing a symphony
indicts a cosmic conception
beyond the diminutive perception
and bent event horizons
of a black dwarf
for too many stars
too many notes?
You can’t taste the new wine
until it’s been poured
into the same old dirty cup of a mind
you’ve been drinking from
like the bloodless goblet of the moon for years.
Long breath
short breath
don’t they both go on forever
like poems you can’t measure for a straitjacket?
You want to make haikus out of hurricanes.
You want to time the wind
when it blows your house down.
You’ve sat down among your peers
at a designer seance
and studied literature
as if you were communing with ghosts
who had the decency not to show up in the flesh.
And you may have climbed
to the top of the world mountain like a postcard
but you’ve never come down from it
like an avalanche of rocks
you rolled away from your tomb
like the vernal equinox
as if Stonehenge were built by Sisyphus.
And what’s it to me
if your attention span
is a flea on a hot-plate
and you’re in the habit
of drinking spit
from everyone else’s mouth but your own
or jealousy makes you celibate
everytime you catch me
French-kissing the muse at her wellspring?
You’re a goldfish in a shark bowl
a shore-hugger
with a spineless guitar-pick for a fin
afraid of the dangers
of being swept out into the deep night sea
by the rogue karma
of getting caught up
in your own undertow.
You’re more at home
among dead starfish and washed-up things
in the slums of shallow tidal pools
than the palatial spaces
of more gifted myths of origin.
Literati in the corpus delecti
of the great dead
forensically parsed
by the grammar of maggots
it must be scary for you
to try to imagine
anything you can’t prove
like the singularity
at the bottom of a blackhole
or the creative potential of dark matter.
You may be armies of lice
in the Golden Fleece
living like stars with tenure
in faculties of sunlight
but who among you
knows how to sow
the teeth of the dragon?
If I keep faith with my calling
by following it like a salmon
all the way to the sea like a river
and back to the mountains to die
why should I listen
to the fingerlings on a fish farm
about flowing the wrong way
without checking the depth of the water
to see if Im in too deep?
I can’t get enough of the stars
but you look at them like a blackhole
and think they’re overdoing their shining.
I’ve never regretted trusting or loving someone
in some interglacial warming period
when the trees come back.
And I’ve never killed a thing I ever loved.
I swallow the darkness of separation
knowing it’s the poisoned mushroom
of the emperor-clown’s last act.
I taste the fact on the fork and concede.
I take more than my own death
out into the desert
and I mourn without accusation
the empty cup of the moon
at the dry lips of its dying mirages.
It’s just the way the rose haemorrhages
when it gets cold.
It’s just the way a paper boat
is kept afloat by its own themes
all the way down a river
that doesn’t care where it’s going
because its only destination is anywhere.
And what decent fire lies to its flames?
And I’d rather be loved than right
most of the time anyway
so I’ll take the blame upon me
and you can sleep tight as a lifeboat on the Titanic
and I’ll just drift south with the icebergs
hoping that at the first sign of your solitude
you don’t panic
at the way things are going down
and way way too overboard.
You put pen to paper
like a pharaoh builds a pyramid
only to wind up
like a mummy in a museum under glass.
But the first thing I write off is me.
I dispossess myself of thoughts and feelings
like a serpent ditches its skin
tired of being the fall-guy for sin
or the ocean gets its waves off its back
as if they didn’t belong to anyone’s mind
when the wind reads what’s written in sand
like a lifeline on the palm of my hand
that bends round the heel of my thumb
like an ongoing question of when.
You have to become no one
if you want to understand
the mindlessness of being a human
and the only way to express it
is to say it without a mouth
hear it without listening
and see it without eyes.
Anyone can write a decent poem
but how many can walk on the dark side
and let the poetry write them
without squealing for death
to make their last breath
the whole orchard
in the blossom of a haiku
that might read like a fortune-cookie
but breaks just like an egg
that got the word out
like a bird afraid of the sky
there’s no more room at the inn
for the stars to follow the magi like a hearse
wreathed in laurels and flowers
like the dead blessing
round the bend of a live curse.
You can’t live like a maggot
and write like an eagle.
And though it’s not a grace
that’s easily acquired
by verse lamplighting at night in the woods
to attract the muse like a doe
to your moth-bound lucidities
baying at the moon
you hope will mistake you for a wolf
even the darkness has enough taste
not to try to pour the ocean into a teacup
that hasn’t been washed out first
like someone with a filthy mouth.
All your dainty revisions
were the personal decisions
of someone addicted to plastic surgery
like the bride of Frankenstein to Botox
trying to deconstruct her face.
But me?
I had no choice.
How can you revise space?
Or take anything away from zero?
You try to keep order in your life and work
as if you were building Rome again
from the ashes up like Nero.
And I don’t know why it’s so
but insight after insight
flashing through me like sun swords
through the back of a lunar bull
though it’s been painful
has sustained my life somehow
like the brainchild of a compatible chaos.
And I may have been treated madly by poetry
and speak in tongues
like a lunatic in the rain in Babylon
long after its bricks were broken
and the last eclipse had spoken
its last word
about free choice
being gerry-mandered out of the absurd
but you’re as well-versed
as the soft lip
of a Georgian sheep dip
that’s just found its voice.

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The Cloud Messenger - Part 01

A certain yaksha who had been negligent in the execution of his own duties,
on account of a curse from his master which was to be endured for a year and
which was onerous as it separated him from his beloved, made his residence
among the hermitages of Ramagiri, whose waters were blessed by the bathing
of the daughter of Janaka1 and whose shade trees grew in profusion.

That lover, separated from his beloved, whose gold armlet had slipped from
his bare forearm, having dwelt on that mountain for some months, on the first
day of the month of Asadha, saw a cloud embracing the summit, which
resembled a mature elephant playfully butting a bank.

Managing with difficulty to stand up in front of that cloud which was the
cause of the renewal of his enthusiasm, that attendant of the king of kings,
pondered while holding back his tears. Even the mind of a happy person is
excited at the sight of a cloud. How much more so, when the one who longs to
cling to his neck is far away?

As the month of Nabhas was close at hand, having as his goal the sustaining
of the life of his beloved and wishing to cause the tidings of his own welfare
to be carried by the cloud, the delighted being spoke kind words of welcome
to the cloud to which offerings of fresh kutaja flowers had been made.

Owing to his impatience, not considering the imcompatibility between a cloud
consisting of vapour, light, water and wind and the contents of his message
best delivered by a person of normal faculties, the yaksha made this request to
the cloud, for among sentient and non-sentient things, those afflicted by desire
are naturally miserable:

Without doubt, your path unimpeded, you will see your brother’s wife, intent
on counting the days, faithful and living on. The bond of hope generally
sustains the quickly sinking hearts of women who are alone, and which wilt
like flowers.

Just as the favourable wind drives you slowly onward, this cataka cuckoo,
your kinsman, calls sweetly on the left. Knowing the season for fertilisation,
cranes, like threaded garlands in the sky, lovely to the eye, will serve you.

Your steady passage observed by charming female siddhas who in trepidation
wonder ‘Has the summit been carried off the mountain by the wind?’, you
who are heading north, fly up into the sky from this place where the nicula
trees flourish, avoiding on the way the blows of the trunks of the elephants of
the four quarters of the sky.

This rainbow, resembling the intermingled sparkling of jewels, appears before
Mt Valmikagra, on account of which your dark body takes on a particular
loveliness, as did the body of Vishnu dressed as a cowherd with the peacock’s
feather of glistening lustre.

While being imbibed by the eyes of the country women who are ignorant of
the play of the eyebrows, who are tender in their affection, and who are
thinking ‘The result of the harvest depends on you’, having ascended to a
region whose fields are fragrant from recent ploughing, you should proceed a
little to the west. Your pace is swift. Go north once more.

Mt Amrakuta will carefully bear you upon its head—you whose showers
extinguished its forest fires and who are overcome by fatigue of the road.
Even a lowly being, remembering an earlier kind deed, does not turn its back
on a friend who has come for refuge; how much less, then, one so lofty?

When you, remembling a glossy braid of hair, have ascended its summit, the
mountain whose slopes are covered with forest mangoes, glowing with ripe
fruit, takes on the appearance of a breast of the earth, dark at the centre, the
rest pale, worthy to be beheld by a divine couple.

Having rested for a moment at a bower enjoyed by the forest-dwelling
women, then travelling more swiftly when your waters have been discharged,
the next stage thence is crossed. You will see the river Reva spread at the foot
of Mt Vandhya, made rough with rocks and resembling the pattern formed by
the broken wrinkles on the body of an elephant.

Your showers shed, having partaken of her waters that are scented with the
fragrant exudation of forest elephants and whose flow is impeded by thickets
of rose-apples, you should proceed. Filled with water, the wind will be unable
to lift you, O cloud, for all this is empty is light, while fullness results in

Seeing the yellow-brown nipa with their stamens half erect, eating the kankali
flowers whose first buds have appeared on every bank, and smelling the
highly fragrant scent of the forest earth, the deer will indicate the way to the

Watching the cataka cuckoos that are skilled in catching raindrops, and
watching the herons flying in skeins as they count them, the siddhas will hold
you in high regard at the moment of your thundering, having received the
trembling, agitated embraced of their beloved female companions!

I perceive in an instant, friend, your delays on mountain after mountain
scented with kakubha flowers—you who should desire to proceed for the sake
of my beloved. Welcomed by peacocks with teary eyes who have turned their
cries into words of welcome, you should somehow resolve to proceed at once.

Reaching their capital by the name of Vidisha, renowned in all quarters, and
having won at once complete satisfaction of your desires, you will drink the
sweet, rippling water from the Vetravati River which roars pleasantly at the
edge of her banks, rippling as if her face bore a frown.

There, for the sake of rest, your should occupy the mountain known as Nicaih
which seems to thrill at your touch with its full-blown kadamba flowers, and
whose grottoes make known the unbridled youthful deeds of the townsmen by
emitting the scent of intercourse with bought women.

After resting, move on while watering with fresh raindrops the clusters of
jasmine buds that grow in gardens on the banks of the forest rivers—you who
have made a momentary acquaintance with the flower-picking girls by lending
shade to their faces, the lotuses at whose ears are withered and broken as they
wipe away the perspiration from their cheeks.

Even though the route would be circuitous for one who, like you, is
northward-bound, do not turn your back on the love on the palace roofs in
Ujjayini. If you do not enjoy the eyes with flickering eyelids of the women
startled by bolts of lightning there, then you have been deceived!

On the way, after you have ascended to the Nirvandhya River, whose girdles
are flocks of birds calling on account of the turbulence of her waves, whose
gliding motion is rendered delightful with stumbling steps, and whose
exposed navel is her eddies, fill yourself with water, for amorous distraction
is a woman’s first expression of love for their beloved.

When you have passed that, you should duly adopt the means by which the
Sindhu River may cast off her emaciation—she whose waters have become
like a single braid of hair, whose complexion is made pale by the old leaves
falling from the trees on her banks, and who shows you goodwill because she
has been separated from you, O fortunate one.

Having reached Avanti where the village elders are well-versed in the legend
of Udayana, make your way to the aforementioned city of Vishala, filled with
splendour, like a beautiful piece of heaven carried there by means of the
remaining merit of gods who had fallen to earth when the fruits of the good
actions had nearly expired;

Where, at daybreak, the breeze from the Shipra River, carrying abroad the
sweet, clear, impassioned cries of the geese, fragrant from contact with the
scent of full-blown lotuses and pleasing to the body, carries off the lassitude
of the women after their love-play, like a lover making entreaties for further

And having see by the tens of millions the strings of pearls with shining gems
as their central stones, conches, pearl-shells, emeralds as green as fresh grass
with radiating brilliance and pieces of coral displayed in the market there, the
oceans appear to contain nothing but water;

And where the knowledgeable populace regale visiting relatives thus: ‘Here
the king of the Vatsa brought the precious daughter of Pradyota. Here was the
golden grove of tala-trees of that same monarch. Here, they say, roamed
Nalagiri (the elephant), having pulled out his tie-post in fury.’

Your bulk increased by the incense that is used for perfuming the hair that
issues from the lattices, and honoured with gifts of dance by the domestic
peacocks out of their love for their friend, lay aside the weariness of the
travel while admiring the splendour of its palaces which are scented with
flowers and marked by the hennaed feet of the lovely women.

Observed respectfully by divine retinues who are reminded of the colour of
their master’s throat, you should proceed to the holy abode of the lord of the
three worlds, husband of Chandi, whose gardens are caressed by the winds
from the Gandhavati River, scented with the pollen of the blue lotuses and
perfumed by the bath-oils used by young women who delight in water-play.

Even if you arrive at Mahakala at some other time, O cloud, you should wait
until the sun passes from the range of the eye. Playing the honourable role of
drum at the evening offering to Shiva, you will receive the full reward for
your deep thunder.

There, their girdles jingling to their footsteps, and their hands tired from the
pretty waving of fly-whisks whose handles are brilliant with the sparkle of
jewels, having received from you raindrops at the onset of the rainy season
that soothe the scratches made by fingernails, the courtesans cast you
lingering sidelong glances that resemble rows of honey-bees.

Then, settled above the forests whose trees are like uplifted arms, being round
in shape, producing an evening light, red as a fresh China-rose, at the start of
Shiva’s dance, remove his desire for a fresh elephant skin—you whose
devotion is beheld by Parvati, her agitation stilled and her gaze transfixed.

Reveal the ground with a bolt of lightning that shines like a streak of gold
on a touchstone to the young women in that vicinity going by night to the homes of
their lovers along the royal highroad which has been robbed of light by a
darkness that could be pricked with a needle. Withhold your showers of rain
and rumbling thunder: they would be frightened!

Passing that night above the roof-top of a certain house where pigeons sleep,
you, whose consort the lightning is tired by prolonged sport, should complete
the rest of your journey when the sun reappears. Indeed, those who have
promised to accomplish a task for a friend do not tarry.

At that time, the tears of the wronged wives are to be soothed away by their
husbands. Therefore abandon at once the path of the sun. He too has returned
to remove the tears of dew from the lotus-faces of the lilies. If you obstruct
his rays, he may become greatly incensed.

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She Is Not In Love With The Devil

She is not in love with the devil
Because the devil doesn't respect her
And neither her wishes

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Not Stopping To Mark The Trail

Not stopping to mark the trail,
let me push even deeper
into the mountain!
Perhaps there's a place
where bad news can never reach me!

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I Know Not How to Find the Spring

I know not how to find the Spring,
Though violets are here,
And in the boughs high over me
The birds are fluting clear;
The magic and the melody,
The rapture—all are fled,
And could they wake, they would but break
My heart, now you are dead.

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Do not torment me with the blue

at the threshold of the colours
when you paint the morning
with the white frozen little bough
bitterly breaking my windows
in a red spilled cell
when you count my blood
in a happy yellow light
that even more witnesses the pain
in a night black left ajar
when you open my tear
in all the colours
when you tell me
the rainbow has been made for someone else
do not torment me with the blue
there's nothing royal in me
I can't take it anymore

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Do Not Lock Yourself In The Room Of Your Past

are you sad and confused,
my dear rat, afraid of the cat?
do not lock yourself
in the room of your past
go up and see the world
of men and women
join their party and run
and dance under their feet

feel the world and see the
world from the top of the roof
see the glittering lights
where the full moon sails

if you must, talk to yourself
and paint some bright colors
to the figments of your imagination
believe, have faith, and always be kind....

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Not Admitting to Admit The Truth

Your mind is stuck in a time zone.
Inadvisable it is...
To believe to keep it there is positive.
Your mind is stuck in a time zone.
These days are not going back.
If fact your beliefs are way off track.
Your mind is stuck in a time zone.
And it's unfortunate...
Your stubbornness wont allow you to see it.
Although you are stuck...
You are not alone.
And many like you,
Will just sit.
Not admitting to admit the truth.
Since delusions you've been fed,
Wont allow you to!

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Do Not Throw Dust On The Graves

Your gifts, I do not want to keep.
Shapeless doves on the grass,
were ready to take a nascent flight.
My small hands prepare a daisy meal.

Dahlias will bloom when the sun climbs.
I pass the door, that moves like a
stranger, between the people,
looking out for black roses.

One by one the tribes are changing
the colors of flags.
Conversion into sleepless towers
watching the whistles blowing.

Do not throw dust on the graves
in the valley of golden stairs.
The voices are growing louder
after trampeling on the bones.

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It's Not My Place (In The 9 To 5 World)

My mom and dad are always fighting
and it's getting very un-exciting
to get a good job
You need the proper schooling
now who the hell
do ya' think you're fooling

but it's not my place oh-no
no it's not my place no no
no it's not my -not my-not my place
in the 9 to 5 world
and it's not my place
in the 9 to 5 world
and it's not my place
with 9 to 5 girl
it's not my place
in the 9 to 5 world

hangin' out with Lester Bangs you all
and Phil Spector really has it all
Uncle Floyd shows on the t.v.
Jack Nicholson

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Not Eating or Feeding the Comfort of Laziness

I sometimes laugh at the people,
Who perceive creative abilities...
Is easy.

Or those who decide to devote their entire lives,
Creatively expressing themselves...
Are afraid of hard work.
And those critics find, surprisingly enough...
An inability to keep up.

And eventually decide for themselves a nine to five,
Is more sensible for them to do and survive.
Although those who are creatively incline,
Must do both and...without the whine!
With their minds more on pursuing the deed,
And not eating or feeding the comfort of laziness.

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Not In This For the Chase

I am 'not' Indiana Jones.
If you have something to tell me...
And you believe I should probe,
Until you find that act safe.
And you have determined...
It's okay to share!
Remember this...
I am not an archaeologist.
Nor am I into mysteries of adventure.
Not needlessly.
I am not the one who excites,
In shared relationships filled with drama...
Secrets of intrigue,
Or buried treasure to discover.
Oh no.
I've already done the map routine...
With other associations!
If you have something you wish to tell me...
Don't play games.
I am not in this for the chase!

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Not A Friend In The World

Not a friend in the world- everyone is gone,
All I have is all I need- the truth in my heart!
Friends' disappearance for purpose- soon to return at my term's dawn-
Back shall they be led to where I've been from the start!

Promises they have made, are they keeping true?
Life must I get as earned, a beginning anew!
Truly, deeply I love thee, no regret of past,
When love takes hold of you- surely it lasts!

Reality reigns victorious over all surreal,
Reality is all your heart is able to feel!
Many times and in many ways I have thought
Of ways the best recourse- all negative, I've fought!

In need of my best friends swift return,
Back to the life of wonder we did earn!

Maurice Harris,5 April 2008

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Do Not Be Ashamed Of The Language Of The Heart

do not hesitate to write
down the letters and words

your feelings your hurts
and disappointments
do not mind what your
friends say about why
you are such a sad
creature looking for
a nice garden to stay
for a little while
and sigh and breathe

this is your language now
the language of the little child
who laughs because that
arrogant and gullible emperor
has no clothes at all
and his thing dangled along
the paths of embarassment

have you really understood
the language of the heart?
the one that is not ashamed
of vulnerability? the one that
finds strength in weakness?

the one that speaks
about the power of love
amidst the hate and pain?

i have left some seeds and
they are growing and becoming
trees, and now you cannot but
take the fruits and tell me
that they are pulpy and sweet.

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We’ll go to the mountain, you and I

We’ll go to the mountain
that overlooks the sea
climb up one of its peaks
and from high
where it almost
touches the clouds
on Helderberg Mountain view
the dark blue sea,
see trees lined in rows.

I’ll spread a blanket
from where you’ll face
into the breeze
which will play
with your auburn hair
and maybe we’ll catch
some wild doves in the trees
up there
and see them frolic and
count the houses
along the golden shore
and wait for some time
and then some more.

We’ll have a picnic
and eat some roasted chicken
and potato salad
if you want,
and drink some fresh water
from a mountain spring
and have some apple pie
if we brought some along
and later have some champagne
and you’ll be mine
and I will be yours
and when we are done
we will go home again
while we watch the beach,
the ocean and the sky
and down we’ll walk
just you and I.

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Well Sing In The Sunshine

Well sing in the sunshine
Well laugh every day
Well sing in the sunshine
And Ill be on my way
I will never love you
The cost of loves too dear
But though Ill never love you
Ill live with you one year
And we will sing in the sunshine
Well laugh every day
Well sing in the sunshine
And Ill be on my way
Ill sing to you each morning
Ill kiss you every night
But darlin, dont cling to me
Ill soon be out of sight
But we can sing in the sunshine
Well laugh every day
Well sing in the sunshine
And Ill be on my way
My daddy he once told me
Hey, dont you love you any man
Just take what they can give you
And give but what you can
And you can sing in the sunshine
Well laugh every day
Well sing in the sunshine
And Ill be on my way
And when our year has ended
And I have gone away
Ill often speak about you
And this is what Ill say
You know we sang in the sunshine
We laughed every day
We sang in the sunshine
Then I went on my way

song performed by Dolly PartonReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
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