A Short One for Smokers
According to her folks
She smokes and smokes and smokes
And never chokes.
It's all a bloody hoax,
So cheer up, blokes! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Related quotes
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sunday Bloody Sunday
Well it was sunday bloody sunday
When they shot the people there
The cries of thirteen martyrs
Filled the free derry air
Is there any one amongst you
Dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding
When they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You claim to be majority
Well you know that its a lie
Youre really a minority
On this sweet emerald isle
When stormont bans our marches
Theyve got a lot to learn
Internment is no answer
Its those mothers turn to burn!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You anglo pigs and scotties
Sent to colonize the north
You wave your bloody union jack
And you know what its worth!
How dare you hold to ransom
A people proud and free
Keep ireland for the irish
Put the english back to sea!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Well, its always bloody sunday
In the concentration camps
Keep falls road free forever
From the bloody english hands
Repatriate to britain
All of you who call it home
Leave ireland to the irish
Not for london or for rome!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
song performed by Lennon John
Added by Lucian Velea
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Bloody Luxury
(coverdale)
Now when I first met you
I was rolling along,
Just a bar room crooner
Singing heartbreak songs,
An I supposed I could never get next to you
But, you seemed quite happy with my company
You kept my body heat steady at 103,
With your mouth full of gimme
An your body full of much obliged
Its bloody luxury
What you mean to me,
Bloody luxury
What you do to me
Its bloody luxury
What you mean to me,
cos no matter what you do to me
Its bloody luxury
Bloody luxury...
Youre a five star woman,
An you know what to give
To fill a part time loser
Full of reasons to live,
But, theres no doubt about it
Im taking a chance on you
Becos you get my heart beating heavy,
Make my knees go weak
You get me so damn nervous
I can hardly speak,
But, nothings gonna stop me
Hanging on my good luck charm
Its bloody luxury
What you mean to me,
Bloody luxury
What you do to me
Its bloody luxury
What you mean to me,
cos no matter what you do to me
Its bloody luxury
Bloody luxury...
Its bloody luxury
What you mean to me,
Bloody luxury
Honey what you do to me
Its bloody luxury
What you mean to me,
cos no matter what you do to me
Its bloody luxury
Bloody luxury
What you mean to me,
[...] Read more
song performed by Whitesnake
Added by Lucian Velea
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Seasonable Retour-Knell
SEASONABLE RETOUR KNELL
Variations on a theme...
SEASONABLE ROUND ROBIN ROLE REVERSALS
Author notes
A mirrored Retourne may not only be read either from first line to last or from last to first as seen in the mirrors, but also by inverting the first and second phrase of each line, either rhyming AAAA or ABAB for each verse. thus the number of variations could be multiplied several times.- two variations on the theme have been included here but could have been extended as in SEASONABLE ROUND ROBIN ROLE REVERSALS robi03_0069_robi03_0000
In respect of SEASONABLE ROUND ROBIN ROLE REVERSALS
This composition has sought to explore linguistic potential. Notes and the initial version are placed before rather than after the poem.
Six variations on a theme have been selected out of a significant number of mathematical possibilities using THE SAME TEXT and a reverse mirror for each version. Mirrors repeat the seasons with the lines in reverse order.
For the second roll the first four syllables of each line are reversed, and sense is retained both in the normal order of seasons and the reversed order as well... The 3rd and 4th variations offer ABAB rhyme schemes retaining the original text. The 5th and 6th variations modify the text into rhyming couplets.
Given the linguistical structure of this symphonic composition the score could be read in inversing each and every line and each and every hemistitch. There are minor punctuation differences between versions.
One could probably attain sonnet status for each of the four seasons and through partioning in 3 groups of 4 syllables extend the possibilites ad vitam.
Seasonable Round Robin Roll Reversals
robi03_0069_robi03_0000 QXX_DNZ
Seasonable Retour-Knell
robi03_0070_robi03_0069 QXX_NXX
26 March 1975 rewritten 20070123
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll lllllllllllllllllll
For previous version see below
_______________________________________
SPRING SUMMER
Life is at ease Young lovers long
Land under plough; To hold their dear;
Whispering trees, Dewdrops among,
Answering cow. Bold, know no fear.
Blossom, the bees, Life full of song,
Burgeoning bough; Cloudless and clear;
Soft-scented breeze, Days fair and long,
Spring warms life now. Summer sends cheer.
AUTUMN WINTER
Each leaf decays, Harvested sheaves
Each life must bow; And honeyed hives;
Our salad days Trees stripped of leaves,
Are ending now. Jack Frost has knives.
Fruit heavy lays Time, Prince of thieves,
Bending the bough, - Onward he drives,
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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South Carolina
The other day my neighbor has a dented bike
Second day he called me from intensive care
Says he needs a picture of the dented bike
For the evidence of what a wreck he had
Accident
Accident
Lift that fork, eat that snail
Garcon summoned, have a new cocktail
Lift that fork, eat that snail
Garcon summoned, have a new cocktail
Crash my bicycle
Crash my bicycle
In a big south carolina wreck
I crash my bicyle
Crash my bicycle
Crash my bicycle
In a big south carolina wreck
I crash my bicyle
And I won some damages and they were punitive
By which I mean the punishment was damaging
It crushed my head
It crushed my head
Garcon, wheres my drink?
Wreck!
Observe the front wheel spinning upside down
Wreck!
The red reflector fragments strewn around
Wreck!
The back wheels o is now a letter d
Wreck!
I was an i and now I am a v
Lift that fork, eat that snail
Garcon summoned, have a new cocktail
Lift that fork, eat that snail
Garcon summoned, have a new cocktail
Crash my bicycle
Crash my bicycle
In a big south carolina wreck
I crash my bicyle
Crash my bicycle
Crash my bicycle
In a big south carolina wreck
I crash my bicyle
If I had to do it all again, buy* bicycle
If I had to do it, I would crash my bicycle
Id crush my head
Collect the bread
Crash my bicycle
Move along folks
Push her back there, move along
[...] Read more
song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Bloody Christmas
Dark rewrite of Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas
Terrorists, you're gonna have yourselfs a bloody little Christmas this year
Watch out for our dynamite
From this moment on
You will live on in an endless nuclear night
Terrorists, you're gonna have yourselfs a bloody little Christmas this year
Especially those of you ugly mugs who are gay
From this moment on
You will live yearning and hopeless
For your families and friends so many miles away
For the good ole U.S.A
These will be our most golden days
Happy golden days of yore
As one by one
Metals and badges of the highest honor are awarded to us
Because we torn apart and took down you terrorist whores
Through the long, cruel years ahead
If the fates allow
We will fly our star spangled flag high on the highest bough
Just to show you who's truely in charge
Sleep tight tonight if you can
For soon enemy foes
You'll be having yourselfs a bloody little Christmas now
For the good ole U.S.A
These will be our most golden days
Happy golden days of yore
As one by one
Metals and badges of the highest honor are awarded to us
Because we torn apart and took down you terrorist whores
Through the long, cruel years ahead
If the fates allow
We will fly our star spangled flag high on the highest bough
Just to show you who's truely in charge
Sleep tight tonight if you can
For soon enemy foes
You'll be having yourselfs a bloody little Christmas now
Terrorists, you're gonna have a bloody Christmas
Terrorists, you're gonna have a bloody Christmas
Terrorists, you're have a bloody Christmas
And an even worse New Year
Terrorists, you're gonna have a bloody Christmas
Terrorists, you're gonna have a bloody Christmas
[...] Read more
poem by Ramona Thompson
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Using Boot Camp
twink boot camp
twink camp
twink summer camps
twinks at camp pics
twinks camp
twinlakes camp florence ms
twinlow camp
twinlow camp idaho
twinlow umc summer camp
twinrocks friends boys camp
twinrocks friends camp
twinrocks friends twin camp
twins in concentration camps
twins spring training camp
twinsburg day camp
twinsburg day summer camp
twirl camp
twirling camps
twirling camps and texas
twisp horse camp
twisted wakeboard camp
twister baseball camp in torrington ct
twisters gymnastics camp in lakewood
twitchings holiday camp
twlight camp atlanta
two brothers lacrosse camp
two burner camp stove
two burner camp stoves
two can camp orlando fl
two cousins and camp hill pa
two cousins pizza camp hill
two cousins pizza camp hill pa
two day camp del valle
two day camp lake del valle
two day camp livermore
two dog lodge chalets vt
two door camp tent
two from tarzana escaped nazi camps
two girls in a camp
two harbors camp
two harbors camp ground
two lakes chalets
two lakes retreat chalets
two mountains camp nh
two person folding camp chairs
two rivers camp ground minnesota
two rivers camp tennesse
two rivers soccer camp
two rivers soccer camp tahoe
two room suite camp verde az
[...] Read more
poem by Caasder Fronds
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Wangled by the Wayside
'Country blokes is kind,' he said,
And sat upon his swag
(I had no pipe tobacco,
So he said he'd 'risk a fag.')
'A country bloke's my sort o' bloke,
As I've had cause to find.
Them city coves is cold as mud:
But country blokes is kind.
'Now, f'rinstance, just you take yerself.
I meets you on the road,
A stranger, fur as I'm concerned
A cove I've never knowed.
An' when I sprags you for a smoke,
I'll bet you didn't mind.
You done your best; tho' fags is muck.
Country blokes is kind.
'Country hearts is rightly placed
A every battler knows.
If I'd have asked you for a feed,
Or p'raps some carst-off clo'es,
I'll wager you'd have searched your house
For all that you could find
In shape of tucker or of duds,
Yes; country blokes is kind.
'But city coves! - I ain't been there
For years - nigh on fifteen.
But lately I meandered down
Just for a change of scene
But rekernise a human bean?
They ain't that way inclined,
That crowd of stone-eyed strangers there.
Not like the conutry kind.
'To ask a bob for food or drink
In cities is a sin,
An' they goes an' calls a copper,
An' the copper turns you in.
But, if you pitch a likely tale,
Most like you don't git fined.
So I hoofs it back to country scenes
Where blokes is nice and kind.
'So here I am, back in the bush,
Still battlin' an' dead-broke.
An' the minnit I seen you I sez,
'Now, there's a country bloke,'
I sez. 'He's got that sort of face.'
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Poor Folks Town
The work is hard and the hours are long
The money aint much but we get along
Were rich in things can give
That cant be bought with a dollar bill
So, come on down
Have a look around
Rich folks livin in a poor folks town
We got no money but were rich in love
Thats one thing that weve got a-plenty of
So come on down have a look around
At rich folks livin in a poor folks town
We got no carpets on the floor
Weve got wall to wall love
Who could ask for more
We got no big fine things to show
Just a place to watch our children grow
We got no big fine fancy car to drive
And no fancy clothes to keep in style
What weve got were payin on
But its mostly love that were livin on
So, come on down
Have a look around
Rich folks livin in a poor folks town
We got no money but were rich in love
Thats one thing that weve got a-plenty of
So come on down have a look around
At rich folks livin in a poor folks town
Weve got a little simple church nearby
And the promise of a mansion in the sky
A heart of gold a million dollar smile
And a one way ticket to paradise
So, come on down
Have a look around
Rich folks livin in a poor folks town
We got no money but were rich in love
Thats one thing that weve got a-plenty of
So come on down have a look around
At rich folks livin in a poor folks town
So, come on down
Have a look around
Rich folks livin in a poor folks town
We got no money but were rich in love
Thats one thing that weve got a-plenty of
So come on down have a look around
At rich folks livin in a poor folks town
song performed by Dolly Parton
Added by Lucian Velea
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Slow Folks
Slow folks...
Seem to stir up all the troubles.
And they poke up...
To mope around hope.
The slow folks...
Would like to borrow buttered biscuits,
And then lick 'em...
Like their crackin' on dope!
Those slow folks...
Can getchu outta line!
Those slow folks...
I've seen that all the time!
Those slow folks...
Will get quick in your face.
But you gotta say,
Hell no!
I'm not that joke you want provoked.
Slow folks...
Seem to stir up all the troubles.
And they poke up...
To mope around hope.
Oh,
Slow folks...
Seem to stir up all the troubles.
And they poke up...
To mope around hope.
The slow folks...
Would like to borrow buttered biscuits,
And then lick 'em...
Like their crackin' on dope!
Those slow folks...
Will get quick in your face.
But you gotta say,
Hell no!
I'm not that joke you want provoked.
By those slow folks...
A butt end of a joke.
By those slow folks.
Provoked or demoted,
By those slow folks.
Or turn into a joke!
By those slow folks.
They can getchu outta line!
Those slow folks...
I've seen that all the time!
Those slow folks...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Bloody Mary
When youre waltzing down the high street
Singing that sweet french perfume song
Looking out for the boys who couldnt sing along.
Moving like a dancer on the ballroom floor,
Sweet ballerina get me begging for more
When youre rolling your eyes behind your dior shades.
Bloody mary, the queen of the ball,
Bloody mary, you want it all.
Ive been looking for you, looking for me.
I like sugar in my woman more than saccharine,
Too much sweet talk make a nice boy mean.
All in all, mary, youre no good for me.
Just like a bee-sting, babe, youre a pain in my heart
Hurting me more and more.
You get me down on my knees when you talk dirty to me.
Bloody mary, the queen of the ball,
Bloody mary, you want it all.
Ive been looking for you.
Bloody mary, bloody mary,
Bloody mary, bloody mary.
You know that madame palm and her five sweet daughters
Couldnt give a man what the doctor ordered.
Ooh, mary, I love the way you turn it on.
(solo)
Bloody mary, the queen of the ball,
Bloody mary, you want it all.
Ive been looking for you.
Bloody mary, bloody mary,
Bloody mary, bloody mary.
You know that madame palm and her five sweet daughters
Couldnt give a man what the doctor ordered.
Ooh, mary, I love the way you turn it on.
I told, ooh, mary, I love the way you turn it on.
song performed by Whitesnake
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hush! Hush! A LONELY RAT with a Human Hat Chokes in Silence!
Lo! A lonely flower in the garden of the east,
Look! A lonely star in the night sky of the west!
Ugh! A lonely cow faces the heat in the north,
So is a lonely boy admits his defeat in the south.
Yet we say we all belong to one race – the human race!
Hush-hush! A lonely rat with a human hat chokes in silence!
Each day someone wakes up with a frown,
To make up the loss with a groan and a drown,
For rumors keep flying like houseflies in the town,
That keeps one tormented in the hell - a mental breakdown.
Yet we say we all belong to one race – the human race!
Hush-hush! A lonely rat with a human hat chokes in silence!
One is a loner as he builds walls instead of bridges,
Others are loners – shriveled up inside the nut, no repair;
Some others are broken hearts in despair,
All the others are related yet separated by egos and ridges.
Yet we say we all belong to one race – the human race!
Hush-hush! A lonely rat with a human hat chokes in silence!
Lonesome man talks alone at night;
Lonely man walks alone in the broad daylight;
Lonely man speaks when I'm with you,
Lonely man cranks when my heart's untrue.
Yet we say we all belong to one race – the human race!
Hush-hush! A lonely rat with a human hat chokes in silence!
For a crowd is not company just appearance in the show!
And faces are but a gallery of pictures in the showcase,
Talks but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love just a show!
Separate we come, and separate we go in any case,
Yet we say we all belong to one race – the human race!
Hush-hush! A lonely rat with a human hat chokes in silence!
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>
(With heart and soul dedicated to my fellow poet AMIT RAY)
poem by Harindhar Reddy
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The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto V.
I
Call it not vain;-they do not err,
Who say, that when the Poet dies,
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies:
Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone
For the departed Bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distill;
Through his lov'd groves that breezes sigh,
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave
II
Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn;
But that the stream, the wood, the gale
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those, who, else forgotten long,
Liv'd in the poet's faithful song,
And with the poet's parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.
The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot,
That love, true love, should be forgot,
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear
Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier:
The phantom Knight, his glory fled,
Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead;
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,
And shrieks along the battle-plain.
The Chief, whose antique crownlet long
Still sparkled in the feudal song,
Now, from the mountain's misty throne,
Sees, in the thanedom once his own,
His ashes undistinguish'd lie,
His place, his power, his memory die:
His groans the lonely caverns fill,
His tears of rage impel the rill:
All mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung,
Their name unknown, their praise unsung.
III
Scarcely the hot assault was staid,
The terms of truce were scarcely made,
When they could spy, from Branksome's towers,
The advancing march of martial powers.
Thick clouds of dust afar appear'd,
And trampling steeds were faintly heard;
Bright spears, above the columns dun,
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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CLAREVILLE BEACH and 'Bloody Torpedos
BIT MORE FROM ‘GRUMPY OLD BLOGGER’.
Any body remember the NAVEL TORPEDO BASE at TAYLORS POINT, via CLAREVILLE BEACH?
CLAREVILLE BEACH and the “Bloody Torpedo”
Out back of Avalon NSW lives a pretty Pittwater beach, and Clareville, that’s her name. On a peaceful day the beach was pillaged and rent, this is how pretty Clareville Beach, for some time, would to never be the same.
Our Navy boys were our friends, they protected us down under, this day a untervasser thing went mad, well folks they made a blunder.
Must stop, re-late, go back to get attention, Milkrun and Pancho, Mrs. Selley and Mr. Fox, well, they must rate a mention.
Adrian me mate, he fits in with the go, he had a “Cat” moored in Clareville Bay, no surf on Avalon, not a problem, rig the cat and sailen’ down the Pittwater, gees, what more is there to say.
The ‘Targets”, was there three of them, like bastions I supposes, ‘borrow’ a rowboat of the beach, ‘cause there was a fish that lingered underneath, a name something just like Moses.
For many years the base existed nestling in foreshores oh so pretty, to denigrate such a place was, well, was a bureaucratic pity.
Just before the air was blown, sending “Big Fish” down the bay, crash boats raced, hither and yon, we’re Navy blokes, and we jest you not we have the very, very last say.
I think the story ‘bout the base is really a fundamental, just a small diversion, you see this yarn, its JohnFarls story, of mine it’s just a version.
Mores’ the pity, this navel base, it was the place of dread, adjacent to the place Mrs.Selley races “John, JFK is dead.
Hang on, we digress, the “bloody torpedo”, what went asunder, oh I remember, off she goes on a nor’ be nor’ the targets she go’s right under.
Some chaotic trivial malfunction hits the fan, “the fish” has a minor glitch its ‘bloody’ rudder bumbles, now it heads east be east, boats and Clareville Beach, watch out blokes the things gone mad, up the beach she rumbles.
Damage, there was none, all the floating stuff was spared but what a bloody show, only damage, Aussie Navy, “the bloody torpedo” and their Navy ego
You live at Clareville in liven’ times, you think this yarn’s a scam, trust me people you heard it first, JohnFarls and Pancho, your old Avalon Milkman man.
poem by John D. Farley
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0283 A Poet Condescends
It has been brought to my notice
that a review by you of
my latest book of writings
(the term ‘poem’ suggests
false expectations and is not therefore
used by me) claims that, I quote,
‘this poetry is so obscure that
I reckon it’s a hoax’…
Your comment is truer than
you yourself would appreciate.
My writing is indeed a hoax
in terms of your level of
understanding. I do not seek
easy paths to meaning, nor
the standard readymade language of the
avant-garde. So what I have
worked though, you have not,
and therefore, your understanding
however partial would be, in your
terms, a hoax.
Indeed, were you to write
an identical ‘poem’ to my writing,
it would indeed be a hoax –
it would not be the revisioning
of the cosmos, the semantic discourse
with language and communication itself,
the thoughtful and reasoned displacement
of prepositions and their too-long
accepted usage, the deep rejection of
all parameters of lazy thinking about
the imagined ‘purpose’ of poetry,
the study of Chinese orthography as preferred signifier,
in short, the ‘depth’ and ‘breadth’ –
although I of course reject the
accepted implications of those
out-dated metaphors for the
neurological Cartesian – which, in short,
‘I’ as presented in my writing
have voyaged.
However, in
the spirit of charity, I wish you well
in the deeper study of my writings,
and your ‘poetry’ magazine
should it continue its somewhat
faltering publication.
Besides, I’m a widely published
[...] Read more
poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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Birds Of Prey March
March! The mud is cakin' good about our trousies.
Front! -- eyes front, an' watch the Colour-casin's drip.
Front! The faces of the women in the 'ouses
Ain't the kind o' things to take aboard the ship.
Cheer! An' we'll never march to victory.
Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar!
The Large Birds o' Prey
They will carry us away,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!
Wheel! Oh, keep your touch; we're goin' round a corner.
Time! -- mark time, an' let the men be'ind us close.
Lord! the transport's full, an' 'alf our lot not on 'er --
Cheer, O cheer! We're going off where no one knows.
March! The Devil's none so black as 'e is painted!
Cheer! We'll 'ave some fun before we're put away.
'Alt, an' 'and 'er out -- a woman's gone and fainted!
Cheer! Get on -- Gawd 'elp the married men to-day!
Hoi! Come up, you 'ungry beggars, to yer sorrow.
('Ear them say they want their tea, an' want it quick!)
You won't have no mind for slingers, not to-morrow --
No; you'll put the 'tween-decks stove out, bein' sick!
'Alt! The married kit 'as all to go before us!
'Course it's blocked the bloomin' gangway up again!
Cheer, O cheer the 'Orse Guards watchin' tender o'er us,
Keepin' us since eight this mornin' in the rain!
Stuck in 'eavy marchin'-order, sopped and wringin' --
Sick, before our time to watch 'er 'eave an' fall,
'Ere's your 'appy 'ome at last, an' stop your singin'.
'Alt! Fall in along the troop-deck! Silence all!
Cheer! For we'll never live to see no bloomin' victory!
Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar! (One cheer more!)
The jackal an' the kite
'Ave an 'ealthy appetite,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!)
The eagle an' the crow
They are waitin' ever so,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!)
Yes, the Large Birds o' Prey
They will carry us away,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Vida's Game Of Chess
TRANSLATED
ARMIES of box that sportively engage
And mimic real battles in their rage,
Pleased I recount; how, smit with glory's charms,
Two mighty Monarchs met in adverse arms,
Sable and white; assist me to explore,
Ye Serian Nymphs, what ne'er was sung before.
No path appears: yet resolute I stray
Where youth undaunted bids me force my way.
O'er rocks and cliffs while I the task pursue,
Guide me, ye Nymphs, with your unerring clue.
For you the rise of this diversion know,
You first were pleased in Italy to show
This studious sport; from Scacchis was its name,
The pleasing record of your Sister's fame.
When Jove through Ethiopia's parch'd extent
To grace the nuptials of old Ocean went,
Each god was there; and mirth and joy around
To shores remote diffused their happy sound.
Then when their hunger and their thirst no more
Claim'd their attention, and the feast was o'er;
Ocean with pastime to divert the thought,
Commands a painted table to be brought.
Sixty-four spaces fill the chequer'd square;
Eight in each rank eight equal limits share.
Alike their form, but different are their dyes,
They fade alternate, and alternate rise,
White after black; such various stains as those
The shelving backs of tortoises disclose.
Then to the gods that mute and wondering sate,
You see (says he) the field prepared for fate.
Here will the little armies please your sight,
With adverse colours hurrying to the fight:
On which so oft, with silent sweet surprise,
The Nymphs and Nereids used to feast their eyes,
And all the neighbours of the hoary deep,
When calm the sea, and winds were lull'd asleep
But see, the mimic heroes tread the board;
He said, and straightway from an urn he pour'd
The sculptured box, that neatly seem'd to ape
The graceful figure of a human shape:--
Equal the strength and number of each foe,
Sixteen appear'd like jet, sixteen like snow.
As their shape varies various is the name,
Different their posts, nor is their strength the same.
There might you see two Kings with equal pride
Gird on their arms, their Consorts by their side;
Here the Foot-warriors glowing after fame,
[...] Read more
poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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The Stamping Ground
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Coming in with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
The big fella on the front door knows your face.
The barman pretends that hes saved you a place,
But when your back is turned
They say shes older than she tells.
I could stand the main attraction,
But not the clientelle.
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Coming in with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
Everybody knows
Evrybodys trouble,
Who comes in alone,
Who leaves as a couple.
When they seen you coming, babe,
They act like theyre pleased to meet you.
Say its very nice to know you,
But I wouldnt want to be you.
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Going home with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
You talk like you dont have a brain in your head.
You act like you dont have a care in your bed.
Th lights are on,
Theres no one home,
It scares you to death.
You stamp on anyone who stops to take a breath.
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
[...] Read more
song performed by Elvis Costello
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Road to Hogan's Gap
Now look, you see, it’s this way like,
You cross the broken bridge
And run the crick down till you strike
The second right-hand ridge.
The track is hard to see in parts,
But still it’s pretty clear;
There’s been two Injin hawkers’ carts
Along that road this year.
Well, run that right-hand ridge along—
It ain’t, to say, too steep—
There’s two fresh tracks might put you wrong
Where blokes went out with sheep.
But keep the crick upon your right,
And follow pretty straight
Along the spur, until you sight
A wire and sapling gate.
Well, that’s where Hogan’s old grey mare
Fell off and broke her back;
You’ll see her carcase layin’ there,
Jist down below the track.
And then you drop two mile, or three,
It’s pretty steep and blind;
You want to go and fall a tree
And tie it on behind.
And then you pass a broken cart
Below a granite bluff;
And that is where you strike the part
They reckon pretty rough.
But by the time you’ve got that far
It’s either cure or kill,
So turn your horses round the spur
And face ’em up the hill.
For look, if you should miss the slope
And get below the track,
You haven’t got the whitest hope
Of ever gettin’ back.
An’ half way up you’ll see the hide
Of Hogan’s brindled bull;
Well, mind and keep the right-hand side,
The left’s too steep a pull.
And both the banks is full of cracks;
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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