Tough Love
You're stuck in thickened muck,
And you want to give up.
The muck you're stuck in...
Isn't budging.
And on your mind bad luck,
You're accustomed to cuss.
But,
That stuff you're cussing...
Only you began.
You made a choice,
To bottled up your stuff.
You made decisions without thinking.
And...
You've had enough.
But you chose to have it rough.
There is no exit when you're given,
Tough love.
When you get out,
You'll remember it...
As tough love!
Tough love.
Tough love.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
Give and Free It Up On The Rough Stuff
When I was hard,
It wasn't enough.
The sensitive and warm nice guy,
I had to give with no hint of the tough stuff.
I was the one who supplied the tenderness,
With touches.
Supplied I did the sweet kisses too!
You want it tough and rough and ready,
Through the weekends.
And all week until we get through too!
The sensitive and warm nice guy,
I had to be with no hint of the tough stuff.
You want it tough and rough and ready,
Through the weekends.
And all week until we get through too!
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
I like to get it and receive it with a tender touch.
I like to feel it getting heated with a whispered love.
I like to get it and receive it with a tender touch.
I like to feel it getting heated with a whispered love.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
Free it up to give it up!
That rough stuff.
That rough stuff.
That rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
I like to get it and receive it with a tender touch.
I like to feel it getting heated with a whispered love.
I like to get it and receive it with a tender touch.
I like to feel it getting heated with a whispered love.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
I was the one who supplied the tenderness,
With touches.
Supplied I did sweet kisses too!
You want it tough and rough and ready,
Through the weekends.
And all week until we get through too!
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Whoa Whoa Whoa Hush That Rush
Traveling with negative activities...
Hear them cuss a lot!
Yes, they cuss a lot.
Nothing that is said by them,
Seems to please.
And they cuss a lot.
Hear them cuss a lot!
No matter where they seem to be.
No matter in whose company.
Whoever is around them,
Never is quite free!
Or alone.
Traveling with negative activities...
Hear them cuss a lot!
Yes, they cuss a lot.
Nothing that is said by them,
Seems to please.
And they cuss a lot.
Hear them cuss a lot!
No matter where they seem to be.
No matter in whose company.
Whoever is around them,
Never is quite free!
Or alone.
No matter what the reason,
Or the season may be...
They rush to cuss,
With a lust to cuss!
Making misery as if a cup of tea.
They rush to cuss,
With a lust to cuss.
And dropping in the Autumn like leaves from trees.
They rush to cuss,
With a lust to cuss.
Traveling with negative activities...
Hear them cuss a lot!
Yes, they cuss a lot.
And dropping in the Autumn like leaves from trees.
They rush to cuss,
With a lust to cuss.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Foul Mouths Shouting
This magic we hold...
Comes from deep 'withinside' of us.
The moment our hearts began to beat...
That magic of life,
Began
To sweep us up in its wonder....to keep,
In wonder.
And so ungrateful we become,
Soon after that's done.
With a so too often shown...
Disrespect to be allowed.
And foul mouths shouting...
In someone's house.
And so ungrateful we become,
And soon after that's done.
Foul mouths shouting...
In someone's house
To cuss it!
For what it is,
And what it is not!
Soiled from the beginning.
And spoiled to aggrevate and annoy!
A lot!
Until there is conflict.
And it does come.
And so ungrateful we become,
And soon after that's done.
Foul mouths shouting...
In someone's house
And we re-act the way we've been taught,
To defend ourselves.
From those 'bad guys'.
With their differences...
Few make attempts to hide.
Foul mouths shouting...
In someone's house rise.
And we spy on 'them'...
To undercover their weak spots!
Making it easier to do them in.
To cuss it!
For what it is,
And what it is not!
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Give The Po Man A Break
Give po man a break
Give po man a break
Give po man a
Give po man a
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Give po man a
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Give po man a
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Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
[...] Read more
song performed by Fatboy Slim
Added by Lucian Velea
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Better Luck Next Time
Black is for the nighttime
Preys upon the day
Red is for the blood that flows like rivers in our veins
Gray is for betrayal
What you did to me
White is for the blinding light
That I know Ill never see, know Ill never see
Found you in the gutter
You needed tenderness
I gave you everything I had
I gave you all my trust
Handed out so neatly
Caught me in your trap
When I needed you the most
You stab me in the back, stab me in the back
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
If you do it once therell never be a second time
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
Find somebody else, youre never gonna be mine
How do you find the nerve
To lie right to me face
How do you find the nerve
Black is for the nighttime
Preys upon the day
Red is for the blood that flows like rivers in our veins
I try and find excuses
For what you did to me
Cant forget that burning rage
When I wake up thinking of your face
For the blinding swiftness of revenge
That I know Ill never see, know Ill never see
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
If you do it once therell never be a second time
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
Find somebody else, youre never gonna be mine
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
How do you find the nerve
To lie right to me face
How did you find the nerve
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
song performed by Oingo Boingo
Added by Lucian Velea
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society
Epigraph
Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.
I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.
You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Turned Away From The Rough Stuff
a-When I...
Turned away from the rough stuff.
My mind was tainted and a bit corrupt.
I had decided I had had enough,
And if I had any luck...
Only bad would show up.
a-When I...
Turned away from the rough stuff.
My mind was tainted and a bit corrupt.
I had decided I had had enough,
And if I had any luck...
Only bad would show up.
And it seemed like a habit I had,
That kept me attached to bad like that.
Grabbing to attract when I laid on my back...
With a feeling of an itch I had to scratch.
a-When I...
Turned away from the rough stuff.
My mind was tainted and a bit corrupt.
I had decided I had had enough,
And if I had any luck...
Only bad would show up.
Oh-oh-I,
Turned away from the rough stuff.
My mind was tainted and a bit corrupt.
I had decided I had had enough,
And if I had any luck...
Only bad would show up.
And it seemed like a habit I had,
That kept me attached to bad like that.
Grabbing to attract when I laid on my back...
With a feeling of an itch I had to scratch.
Bad luck!
It had me feeling in a deep rut.
Bad luck...
I got stuck but I didn't give up.
Bad luck!
It had me feeling in a deep rut.
Bad luck...
I got stuck but I didn't give up.
And it seemed like a habit I had,
That kept me attached to bad like that.
Grabbing to attract when I laid on my back...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Never, Ever And Luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
prayers are answered
need repetitions
poem by Nyein Way
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I remember, I remember - Past and Present after Thomas Hood and William Wordsworth - Lucy
I remember, I remember
the house where I was born
before foreclosure took away
the homestead I had sworn
in good faith, all attest 'tis true,
to leave grandchildren three: -
times change, leave little rest, I rue
that difference to me!
It seems so very long ago
the liberating Yanks
found welcome everywhere they'd go -
though some were pita swanks,
but since the Shah announced 'I ran'
our bearings all at sea
became - time reeled again would ban
all difference for me!
I remember, I remember
the sun porch, now in pawn,
proud flag a flying red, white, blue,
which now hangs so forlorn
Sun, moon spun round each priceless day,
or so I seemed to see,
four bucks a gallon gas I pay -
what difference to me!
My mind thought then nostalgic ease
eternally could last,
all my desires, priorities
seemed sated very fast,
The fever on my brow shoots higher
now Sheiks of Araby,
up ante for crude imports, tire -
what difference to me!
I remember, I remember
before Alaskan oil
had spilled upon once pristine shore,
polluting fauna, soil.
With climate change I'm feeling sore,
note each commodity
continues rising more and more -
what difference to me!
Back then I'd travel aimlessly,
cared not I ran Iraq,
from dawn till dark, from sea to sea
could, rising with the lark,
ignore the cost of gasoline
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Like A Guitar Solo Scream
Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wahhh!
'Go bottled that up.
And keep your mouth shut!
Go bottled that up.
And keep your mouth shut!
Go bottled that up.
And keep your mouth shut!
Go bottled that...
Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wahhh! '
Oh some people,
With their mouths shut.
Just look through peepholes,
With their mouths shut.
And keep their feelings,
Bottled up!
Some...
People,
With their mouths shut.
Just look through peepholes,
With their mouths shut.
And keep their feelings,
Bottled up!
While others love to stir up stuff.
And then there's people...
Who love to fuss.
And then there's people...
Who love to anger.
And...
Love they do to fist-i-cuff.
And love they do to rush cuss.
Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wahhh!
Ohhhh...
Some people,
With their mouths shut.
Just look through peepholes,
With their mouths shut.
And keep their feelings,
Bottled up!
While others love to stir up stuff.
But not you,
You want to be heard...
Like a soloist with nerve.
Wah-wah-wah.
You want to be heard...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sinning
Back in the night is the father of hell,
By command that I wont go (? ),
If your a stranger your life is in danger,
So guard your lives.
Ive a vocation of verse meditation,
I know if its to ditch,
Optimum (? ),
Yes Im a witch.
No fantasy,
Youre stuck with me,
No wonder evil, none is there to be found.
Sinning every day,
Cussing all the way,
Sinning every day,
Cussing all the way.
No fantasy,
Youer trapped with me,
Just dont get tired and I wont bring you down,
Sinning every day,
Cussing all the way,
Sinning every day,
Cussing all the way.
Rather be a bitch, just look at me,
Bein a witch is what Id rather be,
You just make me mad, Ill let you see,
What Id rather be,
What Id rather (be/feel),
Bad as I can be,
Mad as I can be,
What Id rather see,
What Id rather be,
Bad as I can be,
Bad as I can be.
No fantasy,
Your stuck with me,
There ae no reasons on this earth to be found.
Sinning every day,
Cussing all the way,
Sinning every day,
Cussing all the way.
No fantasy,
Youre trapped with me,
Just dont get tired and I wont bring you down,
Bad as I can be.
Sinning every day,
Cussing all the way,
Sinning every day,
Cussing all the way.
Rather be a bitch, just look at me,
Bein a witch is what Id rather be,
[...] Read more
song performed by Grace Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
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Thurso’s Landing
I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.
II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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You Keep Your Lips and What's Behind Them Zipped
You keep your lips and what's behind them zipped.
No explanation do you give for this.
But then you expect understanding given for it.
And you're bottled up.
You're bottled up!
You do a tantrum dance and go into your fits.
You spit words of venom with a delivered hiss.
And then you wish somebody to bring to you gifts.
And you're bottled up.
You're bottled up!
What makes you think you are deserving of it?
You're not even using those you've been blessed with.
You curse the Earth and spit on it,
When you should give it a kiss!
And you're bottled up.
You're bottled up!
And you're bottled up...
With a half filled cup.
You keep your lips and what's behind them zipped.
No explanation do you give for this.
With your jaws tight together like a big hypocrite.
And you're bottled up.
You're bottled up!
And you're bottled up...
With a half filled cup.
You're bottled up!
You are bottled up.
With guts sucked in and ready to explode,
On a moment's noticed!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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V. Count Guido Franceschini
Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Count Francesco Cenci.
Giacomo, his Son.
Bernardo, his Son.
Cardinal Camillo.
Orsino, a Prelate.
Savella, the Pope's Legate.
Olimpio, Assassin.
Marzio, Assassin.
Andrea, Servant to Cenci.
Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants.
Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children.
Beatrice, his Daughter.
The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.
ACT I
Scene I.
-An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo.
Camillo.
That matter of the murder is hushed up
If you consent to yield his Holiness
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.-
It needed all my interest in the conclave
To bend him to this point: he said that you
Bought perilous impunity with your gold;
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell
An erring soul which might repent and live:-
But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
As manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.
Cenci.
The third of my possessions-let it go!
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope
Had sent his architect to view the ground,
Meaning to build a villa on my vines
The next time I compounded with his uncle:
I little thought he should outwit me so!
[...] Read more
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Don't Putter In the Muck
Don't putter in the muck too much.
Give that up.
And learn to strut your stuff.
Don't putter in the muck too much.
Give that up.
And learn to strut your stuff.
Don't putter in the muck too much.
Give that up.
And learn to strut your stuff.
Pack that sad act you do,
And put it away!
Don't putter in the muck too much.
Give that up.
And learn to strut your stuff.
Don't putter in the muck too much.
Give that up.
And learn to strut your stuff.
Don't putter in the muck too much.
Give that up.
And learn to strut your stuff.
Pack that sad act you do...
And put it away!
Don't economize,
Your happiness.
One bit.
Give that up!
Don't apologize,
For an 'is' that 'is'
Don't quit.
OR give that up!
Don't get paralyzed,
When the lies fly.
And you realize
That the lies are all about you!
Just don't,
Putter in the muck too much.
Give that up.
And learn to strut your stuff.
Just don't,
Putter in the muck too much.
Give that up.
And learn to strut your stuff.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I'm Bad
bad bad bad bad bad
bad bad bad bad bad
bad bad bad bad
I was bas born
I'd be badder when I die
I'm bad when I am sober
I'm badder when I'm high
I'm when I feel good
I'm bad when I'm blue
I'm bad to myself
So I'll be bad to you
So I'll be bad to you
I should've been good
Look at the trouble I've had
I would if I could
But I'm just bad
bad bad bad bad bad
bad bad bad bad
I'm, bad and I'm alive
I'll be badder when I'm dead
I'm bad in my body
man I'm badder in the head
I'm bad in the bed
Something wrong from the start
Guilt in my mind
Evil in my heart
Evil in my heart
I don't need to be happy
I don't care if I'm sad
I don't care about nothin'
Cause I'm bad bad bad bad bad
bad bad bad bad
Don't lend me a dollar
Don't lend me a dime
Don't lend me your wife
She'll have a good time
I'm bad in my car
I'm badder when I'm home
I'm bad when I'm with you
And I'm badder all alone
I'm a low down worm
I'm a conquering worm
I'm a blood-suckin' worm
I'm a slime baitin' worm
I'll put you on the hook
And I'll watch you squirm
I could never learn
Any young turks new tricks
I could never learn
Not to kick against the pricks
[...] Read more
song performed by Violent Femmes
Added by Lucian Velea
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Good Luck, Bad Luck
The film script lies ahead
Change the future, change the past
Choose the players, choose the role
Cast of thousands, cast of few
Imagination decides the plot
Play the good guy, play the bad
Heres the victim, heres the saint
Heres the canvas, heres the paint
Good luck bad luck who knows
Good luck bad luck who knows
The world is peopled by many winds
Whirling faster than the wind
Solving a dilemma of life and death
Trying to make some sense of it all
No good blaming the outside world
Pleasure and pain are in the mind
Whether we like it or whether we dont
We found as much as we wanted to find
Good luck, bad luck who knows
Good luck, bad luck
Good luck, bad luck who knows
Good luck, bad luck
Good luck, bad luck who knows
Good luck, bad luck
We can make it horror we can make it blue
We can make it slow time, make it move
The director sits behind those eyes
Play it straight or in disguise
Imagination decides the plot
Play the good guy play the bad
Heres the victim, heres the saint
Heres the canvas and heres the paint
Good luck, good
Good luck bad luck who knows
Good luck bad luck who knows?
song performed by Howard Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rot Stuff
Sittin' here eatin' my heart out waitin'
Waitin' for this funeral to end
Dug up about a thousand graves lately
My tastes are what some might call
A little more then just off the wall
Lookin' for some rot stuff baby this evenin'
I need some rot stuff baby tonight
I want some rot stuff baby this evenin'
Gotta have some rot stuff
Gotta have your corpse tonight
Rot stuff
I need rot stuff
I want some rot stuff
Lookin' for a lover who's 6 feet under
Don' t want another night on my own
Wanna share my fetish with a cold blooded lover
Wanna bring a dead man back home
Gotta have some rot stuff baby this evenin'
I need some rot stuff baby tonight
I want some rot stuff baby this evenin'
Gotta have something cold
Gotta have something rotting under me tonight
I need rot stuff
Cold rot
Lookin' for cold rot
Rot, rot, rot, rot stuff
Rot, rot, rot
Rot, rot, rot, rot stuff
Rot, rot, rot
How's about some rot stuff baby this evenin'
I need some rot stuff baby tonight
Gimme a little rot stuff this evenin'
Rot stuff baby
Gonna need your corpse tonight
Rot stuff
I need something cold and rotting
Lookin' for some rot stuff
Wanna make love to a dead man tonight
Sittin' here eatin' my heart out
No more listening to this funeral march can I do
Won't waste another night or moment on my own
I've dug up about a hundred graves baby
I'm bound to find somebody as horny as I am tonight
[...] Read more
poem by Ramona Thompson
Added by Poetry Lover
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