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More Dwd Oct 8th,2012

Death with dignity was not mentioned in Trudeau's Charter of Rights,
Therefore our politicians avoid this issue with great delight,
But our Supreme Court banned it and Sue Rodriguez had to die,
Their rule was law for all Canadians and it had to apply.

The Americans in Oregon and Washington have it now,
It's a state issue there and doesn't seem to cause any row,
It's where Americans can decide when and where and how to die,
But Canadians are banned though no one really knows why.

Quebec might try to make it a provincial issue here,
Where Quebecois could look forward to death with no great fear,
So it's obvious that this issue is not going away soon,
Unfortunately the Supreme Court is not known to change its tune.

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Tied Down By Trudeau's Charter Of Rights

How do we go about changing Trudeaus left wing Charter of Rights?
Because all the crooks and terrorists have us in their sights,
They want to come here and then onto the appointed Supreme Court,
Where definitions and decisions could be in their support.

Unfortunately our establishment think the Charter is great,
And changes are strictly forbidden to come up for debate,
We look in the mirror and see the enemy looking back,
And because of Trudeaus Charter, our future could be pitch black.

If we could make Trudeaus Charter for Canadians alone,
Not “EVERYONE” in the world especially every combat zone,
And stop them from coming here to claim Trudeaus Charter rights,
And then they could put some other soft country in their sights.

Dec 13th,2010

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Patrick White

The Lightning

The lightning a salvo of flashbulbs
across the bow
of an unknown celebrity.
The windows have an honest look
to their eyes
but they're politely estranged
by the way I see things.
The rain talks
like a clock with logorhea
and the cars sizzle by
like eggs that have just been dropped
into the fat heat of a frying pan
like a wide-eyed vision of hell
though even in this
they insist upon looking at everything
sunny-side up.
The storm has spoken
though no one really knows
what was said.
Power I suppose.
Renewal and redemption.
Restoring the dynamic equilibrium
between polar opposites
by discharging pent-up emotions
like excessive baggage
unspent potential
too much voltage to bear
living so extremely at the edge of things
without jumping.
But it's an iota subscript of a lie
in the footnote of a suicide
you have to learn
to flap like a book
before you can fly like an eagle.
Or swan-dive into the abyss
with a kiss on the cross
of the constellation Cygnus.
The cops are arresting
someone across the street.
And drunk women
dragging on soggy cigarettes
in the doorways of the bars
out for a girls' night out on the town
as if they were supporting an issue
laugh like fire-hydrants with strep throat
at the insignificance of what's going down
late on a Thursday night
in a small Ontario town
where the shepherds outnumber the sheep
and everyone's looking for Little Bo Peep
as their perfect idea of a soul-mate.
And now the heat again
as the rain lets up
and the air is as damp and thick
as the arm of an old sofa
in an abandoned rooming house
with flesh-eating disease.
Raw mufflers replace the thunder
as they cruise the streets
looking for uncooked meat
to get into the air-conditioned ovens
of their cars
and go for a joy ride
up the slick highway
into the dripping
frog-popping countryside
for a drink of Fireball Whiskey
in a backseat bar.
They're listening to Lady Gaga
but I'm listening
to the same old wavelength I was
when Bob Dylan went electric.
I listen to the words
like the footfall
of a woman coming up the stairs
though no one has
with love in their heart
for so long
I feel I'm losing in overtime
without even playing the field.
And I'm tired of relying on my solitude
as a default muse.
And there's nothing to drink around here
except uninspired booze.
All the dragons that used to get fired up
like road trip Harleys
lie idle as school furnaces in the summer
forgetting it used to be them
and not their arthritis
that once swallowed the moon
and brought the rain.
A dragon at peace with the world
is an urn
with the soul of a weathervane.
They all need a minuteman
to know which way
the wind is blowing
but to judge
from the fury in my heart
and what's not inflammable
about my next breath
it'll be lightyears yet
before I come to that
like a star eating
a spoonful of its own ashes
to recall the taste of fire.
Yesterdays' lean mean volcanic fountain-mouths
that meant what they said
like new islands in the mindstream
turn into tomorrow's
fat jolly fire-hydrants
trying to drown
the used matchbooks
of their igneous past
in the watersheds of their sorrows
like arsonists in Atlantis.
And the leaves fall
like psalms of napalm
in the dead heartwood of autumn.
Not enough dragon-fire left
to start their own funeral pyres
or burn like heretics
in the kindling
of their orthodox crutches.
Some people just don't know
how to say no to death.
And the ones that do
haven't been born yet.
Two roads diverged in a yellow road
like the forked tongue
of a long and winding serpent
witching the air for prey
but I didn't take either one
but take it as it comes
all the way.
Showing a starmap
to three blind mice with white canes
isn't as good
as helping them realize
you don't need eyes to shine.
True north isn't a lost leader
that only knows where it's going
by getting a fix
on whose following behind.
And there are no bridges of time
where we can meet again
to span the gaps
between eternities
in an afterlife of rainbows.
This is it forever.
Not now and then
but who and when.
Carpe diem
as if there were no tomorrow.
And I know a man
whose heart is as heavy
as a leftover bullet
that didn't take the shot
and a woman
who put her make-up on
like a target
no one ever gave
a second look.
It might be an old story
but it's always a new book
to those who live it
as if it had no end.
Even so
it's your afterbirth
that perishs first.
But once you're off the wheel
there's no bend in the road
that can turn you around.
You're void bound for good.
The axis of the earth.
The still point.
The endlessly expansive center
of an over-reactive universe
dying to get to the bottom of things.
Space has no sense of place
like the ghost of a homesick longing
to return to better times.
It's dwelt in its homelessness
like the wind
or a poet in autumn
or people on the move
for billions of years.
Like everything else in the universe
it's a ubiquitous beginning
with perfect timing
that just doesn't know when
to quit.

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Cursed By Trudeau's Charter Of Rights

Sleep-walking nation with soft-on-crime judges sitting on the bench,
Some are educated even bilingual in English and French,
But too many are politically correct to a fault,
The few that are real good never get a media exult.

Are prisoners given easy early release because of small jails?
Is this significant or should we is bother with details?
Why does the media believe that everything is fine?
Its all politically correct and nothing in decline.

Unfortunately we are cursed they with Trudeaus Charter of Rights,
Which politicians and the Supreme Court cannot rewrite.
At least, thats what they say, which doesnt seem correct
Is there such a thing as a dictator that we could elect?

Dec 26th 2010

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Trudeau's Charter of Rights and Suicide

Too embarrassing to think about it according to our crowd,
And its illegal to take a short cut to wearing a shroud,
And the priests and ministers will refuse to give you the last rites,
Suicide is not part of the plan of Trudeaus Charter of Rights.

And like the Holy Bible, the Charter of Rights cant be changed,
With your attitude, they may mention that you are likely deranged,
The Charter was imposed and since then, the refugees arrived,
They fill the appointed Supreme Court though you may feel deprived.

And the idea of input or referendums was banned,
Though the Swiss can have this, we are under some bureaucrat’s command,
You will do what you are told and in the meantime please shut up,
And please stop writing this poetry because you cant stir things up.

Jan 5th,2011

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And there isn't any way that one can get rid of the guilt of having a nice body by saying that one can serve society with it, because that would end up with oneself as what? There simply doesn't seem to be any moral place for flesh.

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La La La

(a. bell / v. clarke)
Dont be naive,
Dont deny what you see.
Where lies the truth?
Hidden deep, in-between.
Dance through the night,
From sublime to extreme.
Lift your voices high,
From a whisper to a scream.
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la la la la la
Dance through the night,
From sublime to extreme.
Lift your voices high,
From a whisper to a scream.
You hang your head down low,
Like a slave to the scene.
But youd be pretty and pure,
Wrapped up, hip in your teens.
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la la la la la
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la la la la la
There has to be a little passion in your life.
Youve got to put the world to rights,
Before too long. (before too long)
When I was young I thought that everything was good,
But how it slowly fades away...
Ill be going away soon,
Through the warm,
Whoa ooh... (going away soon)
To the warm.
Whoa ooh...
Dont be naive,
Dont deny what you see.
Where lies the truth?
Hidden deep, in-between.
La la la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la la la la la

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The World Is Black

The World Is Black
Turn on channel seven at a quarter to eight
You see the same damn thing it's just a different day and
No one really knows why this is happening
But it's happening
And everywhere you go it's just a different place
You get the same dark feeling
See the same sad faces
No one really cares that this is happening
We come into this world
And we all are the same
In that moment there's no one to blame
But the world is black
And hearts are cold
And there's no hope
That's what we're told
And we can't go back
It won't be the same
Forever changed
By the things we say, say
Living in this place it's always been this way
There's no one doing nothing so there's nothing changed
And I can't live when this world just keeps dying
It's dying
People always tell me this is part of the plan
That God's got everybody in his hands
But I can only pray that God is listening
Is he listening?
We're living in this world
Growing colder everyday
Nothing can stay perfect now I say
But the world is black
And hearts are cold
And there's no hope
That's what we're told
And we can't go back
It won't be the same
Forever changed
By the things we say, say, say
We come into this world
And we all are the same
And in that moment there's no one to blame
But we're living in this world
Growing colder everyday
Nothing can stay perfect now I say
The world is black
And hearts are cold
There's no hope
That's what we're told
And we can't go back
(We can't go back)
It won't be the same
(It won't be the same)
Forever changed
(What will ever change)
By the things we say, say, say
Turn on channel seven at a quarter to eight
You see the same damn thing it's just a different day
And no one really knows why this is happening

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Joan Jett

I don't know if I miss it per se, but I do miss the fact that there just doesn't seem to be any rock 'n' roll out there anyplace. Everything does seem kind of tame. It's even hard in Manhattan to go out and find a good band to go see.

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Patrick White

If You Had Any Compassion For Yourself

If you had any compassion for yourself,
others wouldn't have to suffer for you
and the world wouldn't show you
such a sad, woeful, wounded face.
You wouldn't see the withering leaves
and petals of the rose in autumn
as merely the scar tissue of its thorns.
In winter, mend your severance.
In spring, attend to your joys.
Like fishing nets and snow fences.
Like delphiniums in a garden bed
that's beginning to bloom like a starmap.

And you know that stranger inside
that's always witnessing everything we do
like a perfectly clear mirror, even in dreams?
Take another look, you might be surprised
at whose face you see at a meeting of eyes.

It's important not to pass judgement on yourself
for fear of condemning the world.
Show me a mirage that isn't a friend to water
or a wishing-well that resents a rainbow
for the pot of gold at the end, though
no one ever knows which end at the time.

Be kind to your delusive paradigms of life,
as you would an old skin you shed like the moon
when your serpent-fire could no longer contain itself
and broke out of its sacred chrysalis like a dragonfly
that had made itself a house of life out of matchsticks
and went up in flames like a snake with wings.

If you could see your life for what it is,
a teaching device for mentoring your own enlightenment
you might read the books of all the sages
rooted and flowering in you like the wisdom of a seed,
or the star in the ore of a panspermic universe
that was planted in you like the garden you've been from birth.

You might think that the wildflowers
are looking up at the stars to understand themselves
but, in truth, they're looking up at their roots
like rain reveres the lightning that engenders it.

You don't need to convince the wind of your freedom,
you've just got to ride it out to the end,
a friend to yourself, a worthy companion,
the intimate familiar of a cloud with a clear blue sky
or a subliminal lover of the darkness
love mushrooms up in like a moonrise.

If you knew how to nurture yourself
by breaking bread with the spirit of life within you
there wouldn't be millions of children
all over the world who will go hungry tonight.
They'd be licking the spoon with stealthy laughter
like cookie-batter out of the begging bowl of your heart.

Enlightenment isn't going to add one ray of light
or a single star to the night you're already shining in,
and whatever wavelength you're on, regardless
of the mystic polarities your potential flows between,
like dark matter and light, whether the journey you're on
is orange or infrared or the blue white violet of the Pleiades,
absorption or emission spectrum alike, no wave
of thought or mind, light, heart or water
is discontinuous with the oceanic consciousness
they rise upon, so why turn back to the source
like a solar flare to ask for directions from a starmap
that sent you out like a bubble in the multiverse to look for land.
You know, if you were more of an explorer
without a preconceived destination, more
of a space probe leaving the solar system periodically,
the rest of us wouldn't feel so lost or out of place at your table.

And even if you've made a vehicle
of the wheel of birth and death
and think you have a firm grasp on things
with your arm out the window in the driver's seat,
enjoying the passing view with the wind in your hair
without clinging to anything along the way
it still might be a good idea to learn how
to come down off your throne like a pauper
and change a flat tire now and again.

Your life is not an untimely interruption of eternity.
The eternal sky does not inhibit the flight of the white clouds,
and it even bends down sometimes toward the earth
to pick up Venus like a lost earring in the sunset.
It's your point of view that turns your back on yourself
like the retrograde motion of Mars, not
the planet itself playing rope tricks with your spinal cord.

Why go looking for your mind
like a lighthouse with a flashlight,
a flame for the source of the fire
or a star for the constellation it belongs to,
or the homeless for a home when everyone's
the foundation stone of their own habitation
wherever they are at the moment.

If you chase the wind, it will be you
that loses its breath like the atmosphere of the moon.
And when you run out of air, breathe light, breathe space,
and don't try to fix an expanding universe
to your nostrils like a bicycle pump
to get you back on the road again.
Or you'll find you're swimming out of your depths
to run to the rescue of an empty lifeboat
that's already unloaded its contents ashore.

If you don't want to go blind as a starless night
it's prescient to eclipse your blazing from time to time,
turn the lights down low, snuff the candle,
and learn to see in the dark there's just as much reflected
in the depths of the dark abundance
of a black mirror, though it takes time to focus,
than there is in the expansiveness
of the bright vacancy of the white
that takes things in at a glance.
The seed of a every glimpse of insight contains
the whole of the vision in advance,
and at the core of the apple of the issue
is a green star with dark auburn eyes
on the nightshift of the maternity wards of spring.

And o come on now, how long can you hang on
to being this box kite on a string
watching another phoenix ride your thermals
like inspiration on the wing, without feeling
like the premature ghost of yourself at the onset of spring,
all smoke, and no fire, your flightfeathers smouldering
like a pyre of wet maple leaves who haven't got the courage
to break into flames and flap their wings and rise above it all.
Better to be a weather balloon losing altitude like Icarus
or even a candling parachute taking the fall for all of us,
as daring said feathers and falling took flight,
than not risk falling through the black holes of life to paradise?

And what if I were to tell you're they're just the pupils
the light enters through like your eyes into your imagination
to be transformed from a visual into a vision,
the visible form into the invisible shining of the spirit
that raises everything in the known and unknown multiverse,
and the trees and the stars, the rocks and the clouds
are all counting on you to do this for them,
because this is what you're here for,
if you've ever wondered,
to raise them up to eye-level
with a human who knows the names of things
like parents know the names of their own children
running toward them down the street. It's how
we were meant to meet and greet the universe.

So if once, just once, for my sake, your sake, the sake
of the forsaken with their elbows on the windows of the world tonight
watching it all go by like stars on the firewalks beneath their noses,
that are not embedded in cement like a mausoleum
of movie-stars that refused to become fossils
before their shining was spent,
you took a chance, and that's all it would take,
one step forward with no return address,
to risk falling down at the dance,
and seven times down, eight times up,
such is life, get up on your own two good feet again
and discover you've got wings and spurs on your heels
the rest of us wouldn't feel so lame
when we came over to your place
like a riot of erratic fireflies to celebrate
the lightning moves of the rain that's dancing on our graves
where the dead lie down like the corpses of candles
knowing they'll be reincarnated
as wildflowers and Luna moths
because nothing that's ever given its life up
to this business of shining on everything alike
from a first magnitude star, to the night light in the hall
that shoos the ghosts away from their portraits on the wall
so the whole world can bloom in the tears of your eyes,
the fire in your heart, and in the human divinity
of the spirit of your imagination, can ever be put out
because every shadow of doubt
leads back the light that cast it
in love and sorrow, time and space
like the life and death mask of your own face.

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A Plan for All Seasons-Parody Vicar of Bray Applied to France

A Plan for all Seasons

When Pompidou for culture stood
in Gaul, Faith was profession,
The flag of France’s trade withstood
all tempests sans recession.
The Legion’s knight I did become,
the network freely flourished, -
the Gaullist movement was the sum
which indendance nourished.

When VGE contrived to take
a stand and form a Party,
his right-hand man I thought I’d make
in P.R. I was arty!
I’d teach my flock, in Politics
the aim’s communication,
left, centre, right, I’d ever mix
for the good of the nation.

When Chirac went off in a huff
I thought him rather cheeky,
to act so spoiled and off the cuff
rat ere the ship was leaky,
and so I stayed who would not sink,
and thought that I was clever
to trip to Afric in the pink –
for diamonds are forever!

When Barre directed France’s helm
I joined his team right hearty
to guide the godless in the realm
away from bone – aparté!
To teach my flock a bag of tricks
became soul’s sole vocation,
and when at Barre the French through sticks,
I took a long vacation!

When God took over at the bar
I left the side of Darty,
and leftwards veered hitched to a star,
which some men thought was tarty!
My former friends, now foes, threw bricks
in baffled consternation,
but soon I knocked their balls for six
by [s]lick anticipation.

Anticipation does not serve
when world wide trade turns down, sir,
and so my soul began to swerve
from Mauroy and his frown, sir.
But Fabius no Fabian proved,
and, saved from resignation,
to him my wagon was removed
with no blush hesitation.

Then with elections fresh in France
I found myself in quandary,
with Left and Right twinned in the dance
approved by all and sundry:
the President on Chirac lent
although “cohabitation”
a pet phrase was, - God, what it meant,
was altar altercation!

The wheel of change brought Chirac back –
enforced cohabitation –
and so I took another t(r) ack,
a different destination.
I trained myself with main and might
to serve both self and nation,
and ever looked to left and right
to keep myself in station.

When God was born a second time,
with Rocard I allied, sir,
and saw with pride my fortunes climb
though unemployed oft cried ‘cur! ’
Investment in my future firm
encouraged in the system
the faith that made the left-wing squirm –
though reds resigned, none missed ‘em.

But Cresson came – I had my doubts,
and so once more I altered,
and almost rallied to the krauts
but missed my mark and faltered.
To teach my flock I seldom missed
the chance, in illustration,
to show that unemployment kissed
good bye to approbation.

Cresson soon overgrown with weeds
resigned, by none regretted,
Bérégovy to her succeeds,
by very few abetted.
His luckless task I would not take,
awaiting fresh elections,
where the old guard once more would stake
old chips sans introspections.

Though Béré brought a brief respite
the storm clouds gathered darkly,
God gave to Tapie left and right
till bankruptcy rose starkly,
but while one saw ecologists
play games with coalitions,
through National Front men got the gist
of altering conditions.

Then Balladur began to dance
with God a double tango,
I to the Bourse returned to play
the market with contango.
A fresh election was in sight,
the wheel turned once again, sir,
in Parliament perched on the right
I’m counted among men, sir!

But Balladur – for thirty years –
found friendship’s ties restraining,
and lost his bid, retired in tears,
dreams ashes turned, - for reigning
was Chirac in his stead, to show
that after wilderness he
had naught learned, naught forgot, to blow
both hot, cold, for a vote “oui”!

The seven year itch brought us back
to socialists supreme, sir,
the Left foiled Chirac’s vain attack,
and every Gaullist dream, sir,
the country spun round like a top,
the Rose’s emanations
to Chirac’s projects put a stop –
to Right Wing consternation.

Then bad blood spilt became hot news
with AIDS on the agenda,
as criticism lit short fuse
from every questioned gender, -
transfusion then became an aim
of tardy legislation,
while House and Senate found a flame
to fight contamination.

Chirac and Juppé I began
to pay for promises vain,
ideas and ideals were “en pann”
belts tightened were, which caused pain.
The People, ‘spite its ‘muddy brain’
found failing growth and rising
unemployment once again –
was discontent surprising?

As Juppé I to Juppé II
gave way with undue haste, sir,
for future scope he lost his cue,
investments went to waste, sir.
But Time speeds up, elections new
for nineteen ninety eight rose,
as unemployment further grew
bloom faded from the red rose.

For soon the tide turned to defeat
of dictums democratic,
as Frenchmen voted with their feet
expulsions automatic.
As jobs grew scarcer,
less well paid,
with teleworking working,
as piecework grew horizons greyed –
restrictions irking shirking!

The wheel of Fortune spun once more
with Chirac just ahead, sir,
while Balladur, shook to the core,
was left with face bright red, sir, -
but Juppé’s domicile became
a short lease provocation,
he tried to turn the blame
regretting close relation.

When Jospin stood as candidate
pride came before the fall, sir,
how few dared to anticipate
Le Pen would have a ball, sir!
The left locked out of second round
tolled bell for re-election,
was sentiment in France unsound
to justify ejection?

With Raffarin a new world dawned,
said some – but dumb he proved, sir,
from one to two to three unmoved
his mandate was reproved, sir.
He left the land as bland as when
he came to Chirac’s whistle,
both uninspiring flame and fame, -
unnoticed his dismissal.

Much to Sarko’s chagrin the star
of Villepin then was rising,
outright right turned the former tsar,
as umpire supervising
a U.M.P. soon to be rump
reduced by Royal flush, sir, -
who hopes to hold a leftist trump
behind her beauty’s blush, sir.

So on the double one must make
allegiance to new Queen, sir,
though old Lang sign his wish to take
the cake from the dauphine, sir. –
yet who’ll be President remains
withheld from ken of mortal
until the rewards for all their pain’s
disclosed by Fate to chortle.

Tsunami tides of votes for grabs
soon ebb, as soon forgotten,
yet vicars everywhere keep tabs -
placeholders’ gains ill-gotten, -
from sinecure to sinecure
we, hungry, will maintain, sir,
and whosoever falls, be sure
we’ll find our feet again, sir!

What’s next? One well may ask, the choice
as ever’s à la Carte, we
will tune to tone of voters’ voice
before new course we’ll chart, see!
But this is sure, he who Fate picks
must act, no hesitation
is tolerated – fiddlesticks
for vain vociferation.

Now, as the Information Age
replaces old conditions,
and undermines the printed page –
traditional editions,
all link online with micro niches
as way of life tomorrow,
soon I’ll retire to my péniche
and scribble free from sorrow!

(4 September 1996 and various times
Parody – The Vicar of Bray)

The Vicar of Bray

In good King Charles's golden days, 1660_1685
When loyalty no harm meant;
A furious High-Church man I was,
And so I gain'd preferment.
Unto my flock I daily preach'd,
Kings are by God appointed,
And damn'd are those who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord's anointed.

And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!

When Royal James possess'd the crown, 1685_1688
And popery grew in fashion;
The penal law I houted down,
And read the declaration:
The Church of Rome, I found would fit,
Full well my constitution,
And I had been a Jesuit,
But for the Revolution.

When William our deliverer came, 1689_1702
To heal the nation's grievance,
I turned the cat in pan again,
And swore to him allegiance:
Old principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive obedience is a joke,
A jest is non-resistance.

When glorious Anne became our queen 1702_1714
The Church of England's glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional conformists base,
I damn'd, and moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
From such prevarication.

When George in pudding time came o'er, 1714_1727
And moderate men looked big, sir,
My principles I chang'd once more,
And so became a Whig, sir:
And thus preferment I procur'd,
From our faith's great defender,
And almost every day abjur'd
The Pope, and the Pretender.

The illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I lustily will swear,
Whilst they can keep possession:
For in my faith, and loyalty,
I never once will falter,
George, my lawful king shall be,
Except the times should alter.

And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, Sir!

(Author Unknown )

In Vino Veritas

When Science led me by the hand right up her garden path, Sir,
They tried to make me understand her Physics, Chem and Math, Sir.
It came to naught, and all they taught could not have fallen flatter,
Except for this, which gave me bliss, the liquid state of matter.

cho: And this is plain, as I maintain, since good old Aristotle
The truth has been most clearly seen reflected in a bottle.

What always jars in seminars and causes constant panics,
Is all that talk and blackboard chaulk to inculcate mechanics;
I feel I need a glass of mead, as drunk by ancient druids
And so thereby exemplify the properties of fluids.

And still today I find no way to handle apparatus.
For me alone the Great Unknown brings no divine afflatus.
Yet this this I know, when problems show no hope of resolution,
This glass of mine when filled with wine will give the right solution.

In Physics I can only make uneducated guesses,
My wooly pate can't calculate the simplest strains and stresses;
Yet when my head is almost dead with mental acrobatics,
A pint of ale will never fail to teach me hydrostatics.

To learn the rules of molecules confounds my best resources,
For Van der Waals gets me in snarls with his atomic forces.
The parachor, and what it's for, I never dare to mention:
A glass of stout includes me out of studying surface tension.

Both rho and phee are Greek to me, I find them most unruly;
I don't see why they satisfy the equation of Bernoulli.
I can't make sense of turbulence, I merely get to know, Sir,
From half a quart of vintage port the facts of liquid flow, Sir.

In deep research let others lurch and hunt elusive muons.
For QED is not for me, with all its quarks and gluons.
Let others gaze at cosmic rays revealed in sparkling bubbles
A glass of beer will always clear my head, and end my troubles.

(New Scientist contest winner Parody – The Vicar of Bray
Dr. H. J. Taylor)

Vicar of Bray – American

When royal George ruled o'er this land and loyalty no harm meant
For Church and King I made a stand and so I got preferment
I still opposed all party tricks for reasons I thought clear ones
And swore it was their politics to made us all Presbyterians

And this is the law that I'll maintain until my dying day, sir
That whatsoever King might reign, I'll still be Vicar of Bray, sir

When Stamp Act passed the Parliament to bring some grist to mill, sir
To back it was my firm intent, but soon there came repeal, sir
I quickly joined the common cry that we should all be slaves, sir
The House of Commons was a sty, the Kings and Lords were knaves, sir
Now all went smooth, as smooth as can be, I strutted and looked big, sir

And when they laid a tax on tea, I was believed a Whig, sir
I laughed at all the vain pretense of taxing at a distance
And swore before I'd pay a pence, I'd make a firm resistance
A Congress now was swiftly called that we might work together
I thought that Britain would, appalled, be glad to make fair weather

And soon repeal the obnoxious bill, as she had done before, sir
That we could gather wealth at will and so be taxed no more, sir
But Britain was not quickly seared, she told another story
When independence was declared, I figured as a Tory
Declared it was a rebellion base, to take up arms - I cursed it

For faith, it seemed a settled case, that we should soon be worsted
The French alliance now came forth, the Papists flocked in shoals, sir
Friseurs, marquis, valets of birth and priests to save our souls, sir
Our 'good ally' with towering wing embraced the flattering hope sir
That we should own him for our King and then invite the Pope, sir
Then Howe with drum and great parade marched through this famous town, sir
I cried, 'May fame his temples shade with laurels for a crown, ' sir

With zeal I swore to make amends to good old constitution
And drank confusion to the friends of our late revolution
But poor Burgoyne's announced my fate the Whigs began to glory
I now bewailed my wretched state, that e'er I was a Tory
By night the British left the shore, nor cared for friends a fig, sir

I turned the cat in pan once more and so became a Whig, sir
I called the army butchering dogs, a bloody tyrant King, sir
The Commons, Lords a set of rogues that all deserved to swing, sir
Since fate has made us great and free and Providence can't alter
So Congress e'er my King shall be, until the times do alter

(30 June 1779 edition of Rivington's Royal Gazette
Parody – The Vicar of Bray – Author Unknown)

The Vicar of Bray’s Toping Cousin

In Charles's the Second’s merry days, 1660_1685
For wanton frolics noted;
A lover of cabals I was,
With wine like Bacchus bloated.
I preach'd unto my crowded pews
Wine was by heav’n’s command, Sir,
And damn'd was he who did refuse
To drink while he could stand, Sir.

That this is the law I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
Let whatsoever king to reign,
I’ll drink my gallon a day, Sir!

When James, his brother, bridged the crown, 1685_1688
He strove to stand alone, Sir,
But quickly got so drunk, that down
He tumbled from that throne, Sir:
One morning crop-sick, pale, and queer,
He reel’d to Rome, where priests severe
Full well my constitution,
Deny the cup to laymen.

When tippling Will the Dutchman sav’d 1689_1702
Our liberties from sinking,
We crown’d him king of cups, and crav’d
The privilege of drinking:
He drank your Hollands, pints ‘tis said,
And held predestination
Fool not to know the tipling trade
Admits no trepidation.

When Brandy Nan became our queen 1702_1714
‘Twas all a drunken story;
I sat and drank from morn to e’en,
And so was thought a Tory:
Brimful of grog, all sober folks
We damn'd, and moderation:
Till for right Nantz we pawned to France
Our dearest reputation.

When George the First came to the throne, 1714_1727
He took the resolution
To drink all sorts of liquors known,
To save the Constitution:
He drunk success in rare old Rum,
Unto the State, and Church, Sir,
Till with a cup of Brunswick mum
He tripp’d from off his perch, Sir.

King George the Second then arose, 1727_1760
A wise and valiant soul, Sir,
He loved his people, beat his foes,
And pushed about the bowl, Sir:
He drank his fill to Chatham Will,
To heroes for he chose ‘em,
With us true Britons drank, until,
He slept in Abraham’s bosom.

His present Majesty then came, 1760_1820
Who may heaven long preserve, Sir,
He glories in a Briton’s name,
And swears he’ll never swerve, Sir;
Tho’ evil counsellros may think
His love from us to sever,
Yet let us loyal Britons drink
King George the Third for ever!

That this is the law I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
Let whatsoever king to reign,
I’ll drink my gallon a day, Sir!

(Author Unknown Festival of Momus c 1770
Parody – The Vicar of Bray – Author Unknown)

A Russian Vicar of Bray

Joe Stalin in his day inspired
Mikhalkov to a lyric.
For the National Anthem he required
A Stalin panegyric.
To Aleksandrov's solemn knell,
He chanted Stalin's praises.
When Stalin died and went to Hell,
These words too went to blazes.
(Chorus :)
For these are the words that he maintains -
Let everybody scan them:
'Whoever in Russia holds the reins,
Mikhalkov writes the Anthem.'

For many years the Anthem had
No lyric whatsoever,
But Brezhnev thought this was too bad,
And called for new endeavour.
Mikhalkov stepped into the breach
To praise the Soviet Union
In phrases to inspire and teach
A communist communion.


The Soviet Union passed away,
And then the rule was broken.
No Aleksandrov melody;
Mikhalkov's words unspoken.
A different anthem for a while
Was Mother Russia's theme song,
But no-one much admired its style.
It was nobody's dream song.


When Putin, former KGB,
Put Russia back on track, sir,
He thought that he would like to see
The former tune brought back, sir.
The old words would no longer do,
The earlier ones were worse, sir.
So who could write the words anew?
Why, Mikhalkov, of course, sir!

Mikhalkov's words, or so he says,
Date back to 53, sir.
I wonder if he pulls our legs?
It seems that way to me, sir.
'Our native land preserved by God'
Back then would not have done, sir.
He could have faced a firing squad
For that small bit of fun, sir.

Now Russia's his prevailing note,
Not Party, nor yet Stalin.
Unlike the earlier words he wrote,
No-one finds these appalling.
His borrowed theme from 'Wide My Land'
Shows some lack of invention,
But who can doubt the Master's grand
'Pro Patria' intention?

To Putin and his middle path,
Twixt communists and con men,
He will forevermore hold faith,
While he relies upon them.
If this regime should go awry,
And Putin's power should falter,
Mikhalkov will be standing by,
The Anthem's words to alter.

(Jack DOUGHTY Parody Vicar of Bray)

Poet of Bray

Back in the dear old thirties' days
When politics was passion
A harmless left-wing bard was I
And so I grew in fashion:
Although I never really joined
The Party of the Masses
I was most awfully chummy with
The Proletarian classes.
This is the course I'll always steer
Until the stars grow dim, sir -
That howsoever taste may veer
I'll be in the swim, sir.

But as the tide of war swept on
I turned Apocalyptic:
With symbol, myth and archetype
My verse grew crammed and cryptic:
With New Romantic zeal I swore
That Auden was a fake, sir,
And found the mind of Nicky Moore
More int'resting than Blake, sir.

White Horsemen down New Roads had run
But taste required improvement:
I turned to greet the rising sun
And so I joined the Movement!
Glittering and ambiguous
In villanelles I sported:
With Dr. Leavis I concurred,
And when he sneezed I snorted.

But seeing that even John Wax might wane
I left that one-way street, sir;
I modified my style again,
And now I am a Beat, sir:
So very beat, my soul is beat
Into a formless jelly:
I set my verses now to jazz
And read them on the telly.

Perpetual non-conformist I -
And that's the way I'm staying -
The angriest young man alive
(Although my hair is greying)
And in my rage I'll not relent -
No, not one single minute -
Against the base Establishment
(Until, of course, I'm in it) .
This is the course I'll always steer
Until the stars grow dim, sir -
That howsoever taste may veer
I'll be in the swim, sir.

(John HEATH-STUBBS 1918_20 Parody The Vicar of Bray)

The New Vicar of Bray

or: Time-Serving up to Date

In Queen Victoria’s early days,
When Grandpapa was Vicar,
The squire was worldly in his ways,
And far too fond of liquor.
My grandsire laboured to exhort
This influential sinner,
As to and fro they passed the port
On Sunday after dinner.

My Father Stepped Salvation’s road
To tunes of Tate and Brady’s;
His congregation overflowed
With wealthy maiden ladies.
Yet modern thought he did not shirk -
He maid his contribution
By writing that successful work,
« The Church and Evolution. »

When I took orders, war and strife
Filled parsons with misgiving,
For none knew who might lose his life
Or who might lose his living.
But I was early on the scenes,
Where some were loth to go, sir!
And there by running Base Canteens
I won the D.S.O., sir!

You may have read « The Verey Light » -
A book of verse that I penned -
The proceeds of it, though but slight,
Eked out my modest stipend.
By grandsire’s tactics long had failed,
And now my father’s line did;
So on another tack I sailed
(You cant be too broad-minded) .

The public-house is now the place
To get to know the men in,
And if the King is in disgrace
Then I shall shout for Lenin.
And though my feelings they may shock,
By murder, theft and arson,
The parson still shall keep his flock
While they will keep the parson!

And this is the law that I’ll maintain
Until my dying day, sir!
That whether King or Mob shall reign,
I’m for the people that pay, sir!

(Colin ELLIS 1895_1969 Parody – The Vicar of Bray)

The Vicar of Bray, - The Court Chamberlain

When Pitt array'd the British arms
To check the Gallic ferment,
I spread the regicide alarms
And so I got preferment:
To teach my flock I never miss’d,
“Reform is revolution,
And damn’d are those that do assist
To mend a Constitution.”

And this is law, I will aver,
Tho’ stiff-neck’d fools may sneer, sir,
Whoe’er may be the Minister,
I’ll be the Chaplain here, sir.

When gentle Sidmouth sway’d the Crown
And peace came into fashion,
The lust of war I hooted down,
And puff’d pacification.
I vow’d the papists were agreed
To burn all honest men, sir;
And Methodism had been my creed –
But Pitt came in again, sir.

When Grey and Grenville made the laws
For Britain’s tol’rant nation,
I took the cudgels for the cause
Of transubstantiation.
The Articles I made a joke,
(Finding I should not need ‘em :)
And, Afric’s fetters being broke,
E’en grew a friend to Freedom.

When Perceval advised our King,
(The Church of England’s glory)
My conscience was another thing,
For I had turn’d a Tory:
I cursed the Whigs, no more in place,
And damn’d their moderation,
And swore they shook the Church’s base
By sinful toleration.

Now that the Ministry relent,
And Erin’s sons look big, sir,
I feel a soft’ning sentiment,
Which makes me half a Whig, sir.
And thus preferment I procure,
In each new doctrine hearty –
Alike extol, neglect, abjure,
Pope, King, or Bonaparte.

The new prevailing politics,
The new administration,
On these allegiance do I fix –
While they can keep their station:
For in my faith and loyalty
I never more will falter,
To Liverpool and Castlereagh,
Until the times shall alter.

And thus I safely may aver,
However fools may sneer, sir,
Whoso be the Minister,
I must be Chaplain here, sir.

(Author Unknown Posthumous Papers 1814 Parody - The Vicar of Bray)

The Vicar of Bray - The House of Lords

When bluff King Hal grew tired of Kate
And sued for his divorce, sir,
He cast about, and found in us
His willing tools, of course, sir.
What for her grief? We laughed at that,
And left her in the lurch, sir,
While every one of us grew fat
By plunder of the Church, sir.
To hold a candle to Old Nick
Has ever been our way, sir
And still we’ll play the self-same trick,
So long as it will pay, sir.

Two other queens that underwent
The long divorce of steel, ” sir –
Do you suppose that e’er we wept,
Or for their fate did feel, sir?
We only sought to please the Kign,
And his worst wishes further;
And gaily did our order join
In each judicial murder.
For us no trick was e’er too base,
No crime too foul to shock, sir,
Nor innocence availed to save
E’en women from the block, sir.

When Mary came with fire and stake
Poor pious folks to slay, sir,
No single protest did we make,
But let her work her will, sir;
But when the Church reclaimed her lands,
And looked for smooth compliance,
We quickly raised our armèd bands
And gave her bold defiance.
Thus did the Queen her error learn,
To think (how gross the blunder!)
That, though we let her rack and burn,
We’d e’er restore our plunder.

Elizabeth, the mighty Queen,
We quailed beneath her frown, sir,
With nought but fear and hate for one
So worthy of the crown, sir,
As abject traitors round her throne
We fulsome homage paid her,
Though more than half of us were known
To plot with the invader.
To her for ducal coronets
We never were beholden;
To us the days of ‘Good Queen Bess’
Were anything but ‘golden’.

When slobbering James of coin was short,
He baronets invented,
And to creating lords for gold
Right gladly he consented;
A handsome “tip” was all he asked
To make you duke or lord, sir –
No question ever of your worth,
‘Twas what you could afford, sir.
To be a peer, “your grace, ” “my lord, ”
O, Lord! how fine it sounded!
And thus, by shelling out of cash
Were noblest houses founded.

When Charles the First, the public right
To crush but now applies him,
And willing help he gets from us;
As friends we stand beside him.
His acts of tyranny and fraud
Scarce one of us opposes –
The fine, the prison, or the whip,
Or slitting people’s noses.
To curb the tyrant of his will
Was no way in our line, sir,
All human rights were forfeited,
And merged in “Right Divine, ” sir.

The Second Charles just suited us,
We joined his lewd carouses,
And concubines became the source
Of many ducal houses.
And, as reward of services
That history scarce mentions,
You still enjoy the privilege
Of paying us the pensions.
And this we swear, by all thats blue
Despite that prudes cry “Hush, sir! ”
That whatsoever we may do,
You’ll never find us blush, sir.

In Jame’s Court we flourished still;
Like sycophants we vied, sir;
To be a royal mistress formed
Our daughters’ highest rpide, sir;
For Whigs through tortures were devised,
Their legs with wedges broke, sir,
We ate and drank, and laughed and played,
But ne’er a word we spoke, sir.
For mingled cruelty and wrong
We never did upbraid him;
But when a paying chance came round,
Right quickly we betrayed him.

When William came, with righteous rule,
We proved but glum consenters;
The King we deemed was but a fool
To tolerate Dissenters.
Whilst on his part his Majesty
Distrusted us with reason,
For gainst our chosen lord and king
We still kept plotting treason.
And so against all righteous things
We’ve struggled from the first, sir,
To vex and thwart the better kings,
And sided with the worst sir.

In reign of Anne, ‘twas one of us,
Gave notice to the foe, sir,
Against his port and arsenal
We aimed a warlike blow, sir;
And thus were lost, in dire defeat
Eight hundred sailors bold, sir –
But what of that, when France’s bribe
Our “noble duke” consoled sir?
Betrayal of the States designs
By this colossal traitor –
What wonder now the lordlings praise
His humble imitator!

With George the Third it was essayed
To purge our code from blood, sir,
But we the arm of mercy stayed,
Its efforts all withstood, sir;
To hang for e’en a paltry theft –
Though tempted sore by hunger –
Was God’s own justice, so it seemed
To every boroughmonger.
And so poor wretches, one or more,
At every fair or wake, sir,
Performed ‘the dance without a floor, ”
Our thirst for blood to slake, sir.

Yet had the self-same laws been tried
On us without distinction,
Their action surely had implied
The peerage’s extinction.
But while the gallows we upheld,
“Offence’s gilded hand, ” sir,
Had all our lordly acres swelled
With thefts of common land, sir.
While wicked prizes thus we claw,
And Justice shove aside, sir,
Not ‘gainst the law, but by the law, ”
Has ever been our guide, sir.

When Pitt the Irish Parliament
Resolved to bring to London,
He had to buy their peers’ consent
Or else his scheme was undone,
So English coronets galore
Were scattered through their tribe, sir,
Besides a million pounds or more –
Their stipulated bribe, sir.
And by this opportunity
They drove their dirty trade, sir,
To show to all posterity
How lords and dukes are made, sir.

When Wesleyans and Baptists, too,
For right of education
At public universities
Did press their application,
‘Twas we their just demand refused –
Denied their common right, sir,
And all our special powers abused
To gratify our spite, sir.
When Jews to sit in Parliament
Had duly been elected,
‘Twas we kept shut the Commons’ door,
Their right to vote rejected.

On Railway Bills our conduct calls
For no detailed narration;
No line could pass our lands without
Outrageous compensation.
Like gorging fultures at the feast
Our greed surpassed all bounds, sir,
Our blackmail figured, at the least,
One hundred million pounds, sir.
Of Pay-triotism we’ll never tire,
For it we’ll live and die, sir,
And, if the reason you inquire,
We spell it with a Y, sir.

In Reason’s name or righteousness
You vainly may reprove us,
For scorn, contempt, and threats possess
The only power to move us.
To mutilate, reject, delay,
Obstruct whene’er we dare it,
We’ll persevere in our old way
So long as you will bear it.
Of this be sure, until that day
Such things shall ne’er be mended,
Till million voices join to say,
The House of Lords is ended! ”

(Author Unknown Weekly Dispatch 7 December 1884
Parody Unknown Author 0258 - The Vicar of Bray)

Still I'll be Prime Minister

In World Appeasement's golden days
I led the British nation
By devious diplomatic ways
To reconciliation;
I strained to keep the world from war
According to my plan, Sir,
But found the German Chancellor
Was not a gentleman, Sir.

The Peace-Front next I patronized
With wondrous expedition,
A course ad nauseam advised
By Labour’s Opposition;
My Peace-Front, nipped by Russian frost,
Was destined not to be, Sir,
But England never, never lost
Full confidence in me, Sir.

Though once I gave aggression’s hand
A friendly Tory pressure,
To-day with Socialists I stand
To fight the armed aggressor.
And since all Parties must concur
Till Europe’s wrongs are righted,
I still shall be Prime Minister
To lead a land united.

These transpositions bold and deft
Are my peculiar glory,
Which make the purpose of the Left
The programme of the Tory;
And though Great Britain’s leftward bent
To some seems dark and sinister,
Whatever be our Government
I’ll still remain Prime Minister.

(KATZIN Olga Miller 1896_1987 Parody – The Vicar of Bray)

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The Poem Is The Metaphor/ For All The Poet Is Not

The poem is the metaphor
For all the poet is not-
It lives in its own way
Beyond the fine line
Of the poet’s sacred intention.

It knows a holiness of its own,
And perhaps no holiness at all.

It is what it is
As all things are what they are-

And if it means more than first appears,
And if it says endlessly new sounds,
The poet never knew he uttered,
Still somehow deeply it connects
To where he is and what he was and what he will be,
When he is not.

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Here I was begging for help I was not to get. so life now has ended.

Here I once stood.
Begging screaming for help.
Just to overcome the past.
Take responseability I was told.
Even when I told you I was going to end my life.
Put an end to my strife.

Here I was asking for help.
I didnt really want to go just yet.
But the words take responseability.
Goes over in my head.

Are you dumb or just blind.
Im hurting Im suicidal.
All you can say is take responseability.

If I could of taken responseability.
I wouldnt have begged for your help.
How the hell is that meant to help.

But I didnt get the help.
You said I was within my right mind.
Thats what you think.

Well Its all so to late now.
I ended my life.
Just like I told you I would

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A Love, Meant For All Ages

What now of your story, is it now more true?
Methinks it to be inactual, in opposition to you!
Where could it go so very, very swiftly-
How could it take leave from thee, so very quickly?

Now you are there, all alone, without us-
Now is the time to return all, to the way it was!
Without such, none shall e'er know, surely
What was to be, not too, what's meant still, tis too early!

Wheresoever, it shall be known, by some, by all-
Hear they shall our love's duteous, distinct call!
Wither away fear; love, come thee, hither-
Stay from us dread, away-go thee away, thither!

A love, meant for us, for all the ages-
Meant to endure itself, in all its prescient stages!

Maurice Harris,9 December 2007

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Do Canadians Comprehend

Why are Canadians forbidden death with dignity now?
Why has our secret-list appointed Supreme Court disallowed?
Why did they forbid Sue Rodriguez who was in great pain?
With Lou Gehrig's disease while her life slowly drained.

Is it religion, faith, their divine power or some other cause?
Or are they looking for friendly applause somewhere, just because?
Because this is a very serious life and death matter,
For all Canadians when their lives might be shattered.

While Ottawa Supreme Court aristocrats float above the ground,
While we are in great Lou Gehrig pain down here and they look down,
And our party politicians have their own agenda to attend,
Do they think they will never die so no need to comprehend?

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For All Americans Who Love Freedom

A page has turned in America
once the police were sent
into Southern cities to beat;

and arrest Afro-Americans
and those with a conscience
who believed in racial equality

for all Americans;
and we who love freedom,
were shamed, by water cannon,

and beatings lashed out,
by southern police brutality.
Now in New York, New York's

finest choose their slimiest,
to creep in during dead of night,
at 3.30am with their batons hate

aggression; to attack peaceful
protesters on Wall Street.
Protesters who protest claim

America is not the 1% richest
that George W. Bush decreed
should pay no my mates taxes.

Observe whole world watches
self promoted land of free,
claiming rule by democracy,

club their poor who were bleed
of their tax dollars, employment,
houses to pay Wall Street debts;

cheating bankers stock brokers.
Michael Rubens Bloomberg,
Mayor of New York City,

with a net worth of $19.5 billion;

in 2011, plus the 12th-richest
person in the United States
dances with glee as founder and

88% owner of Bloomberg
L.P. financial news and
information services media company;

Bloomberg does not have to pay
off mainstream media; he is the media.
Time to vote jackals out of office.

Inspired by the poem ‘Faces On Hands, Hands On Heart’ by Eric Cockrell.

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One Came For All

Down upon this earthly sand, came in flesh The Son of Man,
He appeared as The Word, this from God is what men heard.
Christ sent The Holy Spirit, so when spoken we could hear it,
And The Spirit in men will lead, as they plant and water seed.

Holy seed that God shall grow, so that all the world can know,
Salvation comes through only one, Jesus Christ His only Son.
Under Heaven is but one name, that men forever will proclaim,
As God’s only true salvation, for each and every earthly nation.

Only in the Son Jesus Christ, can earthly man gain eternal life,
When in Him we’re born of God, upon this present earthly sod.
Eternal death is what’s in store, for all men who reject the Lord,
For all power was given to Him; Christ, who died for all our sin.

Christ is coming back to receive, all of those who truly believe,
To take to Heaven all His own, to the glory of an eternal home.
While wrath abides on everyone, who refuses God’s Only Son,
Who was God’s perfect sacrifice, as He paid sin’s eternal price.

God had paved the way at Calvary, for all men to live eternally,
Where Christ died for all men; so that we could be Born Again.
He came not to judge the world, but with a message to herald,
That man can live forevermore, in Jesus Christ the Risen Lord.

(Copyright ©02/2007)

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What Was Christmas For?

What was Christmas truly for, as on the Season we close that door?
As a New Year for all starts, and the Christmas Season now departs.
Does the Christmas spirit depart, from each and every human heart?
As Christmas trim is tucked away, will the spirit in some hearts stay?

Was Christmas truly meant for this, for once a year to change gifts?
Especially within the hearts of us, who in The Savior place our trust?
Shouldn’t Christmas that we know, be His Light in us for all to show,
The Truth and life we have in Him, who came to dwell forever within?

Should not Christmas be a song, we sing in our hearts all year long?
As in our hearts we joyfully sing, to Jesus Christ, our Lord and King.
A song which should never leave, the heart of those who do believe,
Saved by Grace from this world, with that Christmas Song to herald.

A song we sing all year through, as The Spirit moves in me and you,
To be a light men need each day, not just thought of Christmas day,
Song and light, throughout the year, which every man needs to hear,
This, so men may see their need, that God’s message they will heed.

Some men desire Christmas in July, but, did you ever question why?
A time when gifts aren’t bought at all; could it be music to their soul?
Maybe the songs that they heard, moved their hearts to God’s Word,
With a message, when not ignored, could draw any soul to The Lord.

(Copyright ©12/2008)

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Justice for all storypoem

The bards of old their stories told.
In rhyming verse they had writ,
to entertain the young and old.
Sometimes they stretched the truth a bit.

To please their current lordly host
They would extol his bravery
and of his prowess loudly boast.
Although their words lacked verity.

They spread the news from far and near.
Tailored to suit their audience.
Some news which they were glad to hear.
The bards received in recompense.

The recognition and respect
accorded to them for their skill.
A place to sleep as you’d expect
and food and drink enough to fill.

Always treated as a welcome guest
in manor house or lordly hall
They could fulfil their host’s requests
with stories suitable for all.

Love stories for the ladies ears
and tales of war to suit the men
Old tales for those advanced in years
which could recall their youth again.

The bards were guardians of the lore
which was passed down from bard to bard.
The masters of bryhonic law
Which they had studied long and hard.

It took them one and twenty years
to earn the title of a bard.
Long years of travel sweat and tears.
Authority was their reward.

All men were subject to the law
from kitchen churl to lordly knight
All disputes then were brought before
a bard to judge as was their right.

He listened to the evidence
then made his judgement openly
Applied the law with common sense
but always judged impartially.

But that was then unlike today.
When every man obeyed the law.
But sadly we have gone astray
There is no justice any more.

The laws today are not applied
to rich and poor men equally.
All thoughts of justice cast
aside in our corrupt society.

A guilty man can go Scott free
when clever lawyers twist the laws
and find some technicality.
For which they are well paid of course.

There are no bryhon bards today
and poets get but scant respect
But still we try to show the way
We must protest poetically.

The conscience of society
that has to be our modern role.
To outline with our poetry
Justice for all should be our goal.


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I am not able to say anything further, as I am gone once and for all

I came to life
With a gentle electrical shock
And a mild tremor
When an egg from my mother’s ovary
Was invaded by my father’s sperm
Thousands of sperms around
Showed respect and withdrew from the race
Allowing me to enjoy buoyancy
In the pool of uterus liquid

I moved slowly onto the wall
Where I settled and started getting nurtured
Through the umbilical chord from my mother
I grew from a cell to mass of flush

It was a great stay in comfort
With watery cushion all around
Most of my organs in their miniature form
Nothing to disturb
Except for those tight embraces
With an emotional outbreak
“Thank you, you are bearing my child”

Our first child, should be a boy”
A whisper shared in private
Between my parents
I am yet to know as to
Whether I am a boy or girl

“We do not conduct tests
To know the sex (it should have been gender)
Of the fetus” declared a voice
But continued
“As a special case we will in your case”

Every thing was normal for sometime
Suddenly I felt the impact of
Adrenaline that got pumped
Into me through my mother’s blood
I was in discomfort
For long and adrenaline level
Did not come down to my comfortable level

It is a female.
We need to medically terminate the pregnancy”
Was what I heard in the same voice
That glorified my mother sometime ago
For having borne me
Oh, this is the reason for adrenaline
Now I understood

My discomfort showed no sign of
Abating, in fact, it was growing
Probably my mother being
Emotionally down

Suddenly pierced a sharp knife
And penetrated the tranquil
Watery heaven to cut
The link between me and my mother
And I am out in the glaring light
As a starkly naked flesh of no specific shape
On a kidney tray in a
Irritatingly smelling room

All my comfort gone
And now I was gasping for life
I know I will soon be dead
But I cannot stop wondering
How do these people know not
That I also possess the reactor
Which their mothers have or had
And which housed them for nine months
Shaped them and gifted them
To this world in their full shape

What wrong did I do
To be punished with termination

O God, if at all you can give wisdom
Bless them with that
So that the entire human race
Is not terminated

I am not able to say anything further
As I am gone once and for all

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For All Who Love Christmas = 2012


Christmas is coming and I'm all alone,
With no one to snuggle at night.
My wineglass is empty to help dull the desire
To kiss you by soft candlelight.

A rare pearl of value, you don 't leave alone
Or someone will steal them from you.
After they've gone and flown far away
It's hard to know just what to do.

I'm watching my neighbors hang lights on their tree;
With tinsel and striped candy cane.
I took you for granted and didn't hug enough;
And now I must suffer my pain.

Lord, I'm so lonely; I wish I could die,
Then be born to relive again.
I realize the value of someone to love
And the danger of my selfish sin.

There's a ring on my phone and a knock at the door.
Which do I dare go for?
If neither is you, I'll break down and cry
And again pound my fist on the floor.

I run down the hall and the doorknob turns,
As the swirling snow rides on the wind.
There, in my doorway, it's the face I love
Such a beautiful present to send.

Now, I am happy and dancing around,
With a permanent smile on my face.
As children are singing their Christmas love songs,
And the world is a wonderful place.


In the tiny town of Bethlehem,
Born in a stable, an infant lie.
While he slept his first dreamless night,
A whole universe of stars passed by.

When Jesus Christ our savior was born
Most of the angels began to sing,
Of peace, and good will to all mankind,
And hallelujah to earth's new king.

There were those angels, who did not sing,
For they had passed through the devil's gate.
They knew this young lad belonged to God,
And for them salvation was too late.

So let's rejoice, and sing with great cheer,
That night when Jesus slept without fear.
For our Lord's birthday comes once a year,
On that night of nights we hold so dear.


Christmas is coming and our cards are all maxed.
My wife says don't fret, just try to relax.
But her car needs breaks, and mine needs new tires.
Tax time is coming, and yet, we're still buyers.

For beneath our tree, there's one empty place
Which we'll buy gifts for that will fill up the space.
Cause what fun is Christmas if we can't give out gifts
That kids tear open as the snow outside drifts.

We'll light up the fire, and have a Christmas feast.
Say thank you to God, for saving us from the beast.
It may seem silly, but we can 't help but share.
It's that time of year to show others we care.


Red, gold, yellow, green and blue
Are the colors of Christmas, which glow.
They help us feel their value within
As we travel our way through the snow.

Red stands for passion, anger or desire
Gold is the steadiness of love.
Yellow is fear of the unforeseen
Green and blue are the stars above.

The luster of Christmas can be yours
Most anywhere at a nearby store.
To purchase and adorn your tree and home.
Celebrating life, Jesus and more.


The son of God came down to earth
To be our Lord by divine birth.
Born to a virgin in a stable He lie
Destine to lead, teach, suffer and die.

Satan transformed from laughter to rage
When Christ arrived to destroy man's cage.
A never ending chance to redeem our soul
A new opportunity to achieve God's goal.

Evil doers hate the birth of God's child
They love what is immoral, wicked and wild.
Degrading Christmas wherever they can
Jealous of the joy and rapture of man.

Hallelujah Jesus the king of Christmas night
With a star for his crown bathed in holy light
Christ is our savior who leads by trust and love
Delivering us from Satan to the grace of God Above.

By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web!

Tom Zart
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'To book Tom Zart for guest appearances, product, or services, contact Raymond L. LaPietra-Exclusive Personal Manager,913-681

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