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Yo' Bootay to Hoottang Boot

Youcanbuttonupyourcollarfromthebottomtothetop.
So-no-onebothersyouforwhatyou'vegot.
Pretendi ngyou'vegotsomethingyouhavenot.

Or-youcoul dchoosetokeepitlockeduptight.
So-youdon'thavet odropittofeedanappetite.
It's-yo'bootayhoottan gtopootang,
Whoyouchoosetoscrewandboot.
It's yo'bootayhoottangtopootang,
Whoyouchoosetoscrewandboot.

Letothersm isunderstandyourstimulationindebate.
Inplayerh atecasestheywannamandate.
Letothersdecidewhosi detoride...
Withwideyedliestheytrytohide.
I t's-yo'bootayhoottangtopootang,
Whoyouchoosetoscrewandboot.
It's yo'bootayhoottangtopootang,
Whoyouchoosetoscrewandboot.

It's-yo'bo otaytohoottang,
Whoyoupootang.
Hoot!
It's-yo'bootaytohoottang,
Whoyoupootang.
Hoot!

Youcanbuttonupyourcollarfromthebottomtoth etop.
So-no-onebothersyouforwhatyou'vegot.
Pretendingyou'vegotsomethingyouhavenot.

It 's-yo'bootaytohoottang,
Whoyoupootang.
Hoot!
It's-yo'bootaytohoottang,
Whoyoupootang.
Hoot!

Letothersmisunderstandyourstimulationinde bate.
Inplayerhatecasestheywannamandate.
Le tothersdecidewhosidetoride...
Withwideyedliest heytrytohide.

It's-yo'bootayhoottangtopoot ang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
oooowww....
Boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cosmic Cowboy

Merry-go-rounds and burial grounds
Are all the same to me.
Horses on post and kids and ghosts
Are spirits that we ought to set free.
Then city slicker pickers got a lot of
Slicker licks than me.
But ridin the range and acting strange
Is where I want to be.
And I just wanna be a cosmic cowboy
I just wanna ride and rope and hoot (hoot!)
Well I just wanna be a cosmic cowboy
Talkin bout a supernatural country rockin galoot
Well skinny dippin and lone star sippin and steel guitar
And are just as good as hollywood and some boogie-woogie bars.
Im gonna buy me a vest and a head out west
My little woman and myself.
And when we come to town the people gather around
And marvel at the little babys health.
And I just wanna be a cosmic cowboy
I just wanna ride and rope and hoot (hoot!)
Well I just wanna be a cosmic cowboy
I said a supernatural country rockin galoot.
Then a big raccoon and a harvest moon
Keep rolling through my mind.
And a home on the range where the antelope play
Is sometimes hard to find.
So dont bury me on the lone prairie.
Id rather play there alive.
Well, Im doing my best I keep my farm in the west
My little bronco in over-drive.
And I just wanna be a cosmic cowboy
I just wanna ride and rope and hoot (hoot!)
Well I just wanna be a cosmic cowboy
Talkin bout a supernatural country rockin galoot.
And I just wanna be a cosmic cowboy
I just wanna ride and rope and hoot (hoot!)
Well I just wanna be a cosmic cowboy
Talkin bout a supernatural country rockin galoot

song performed by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Added by Lucian Velea
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Three Silver Screen Cowboys (Fun Poem 24)

The Lone Ranger with a hearty cry,
from within a cloud of dust,
you can hear him say “Hi Ho, woe, woe, woe Silver,
as he hangs onto Silver’s tail.
He is hanging there because he called Silver a naughty word.
Silver did not like it one little bit.
Now he’s off down the canyon,
in a cloud of dust and boots alight,
trying to get Silver to slow down,
so he can apologise to him.

I do not suspect you have ever heard
of a guy they called Sunset Carson.
One day he rode off with a gal
into the sunset,
and was never seen again.
That is probably why
you have never heard of him.

There used to be a cowboy
who rode the silver screen.
He was one of the good guys at that
and his name was “Hoot” Gibson.
Now did you ever wonder
How “Hoot” ever got the name?
He jumped on a horse one day
while making a film,
and he hit the saddle horn.
You could hear him for miles,
shouting, “Hoot! Hoot! Hoot! ”
That is how “Hoot” Gibson was born.

poem by David Harris
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Tu Vuoi Da Me Qualcosa

Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Sempre
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me
Cosa ti Serve
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Sempre
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me
Cosa ti Serve
Ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
Per esser felici per te
Ci vuole "un perch"
Non ti fidi mai
Non ci credi e lo sai
Vuoi qualcosa di pi
E dici che tu
Pretendi da me
Qualcosa che io
Non s!
Che cosa ?...
Che cosa vuoi?...
Che cosa...hai?....
Che cosa c'?....
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Sempre
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me
Cosa ti Serve
Ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
Per esser felice per te

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song performed by Vasco Rossi
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Court Of Love

With timerous hert and trembling hand of drede,
Of cunning naked, bare of eloquence,
Unto the flour of port in womanhede
I write, as he that non intelligence
Of metres hath, ne floures of sentence;
Sauf that me list my writing to convey,
In that I can to please her hygh nobley.

The blosmes fresshe of Tullius garden soote
Present thaim not, my mater for to borne:
Poemes of Virgil taken here no rote,
Ne crafte of Galfrid may not here sojorne:
Why nam I cunning? O well may I morne,
For lak of science that I can-not write
Unto the princes of my life a-right

No termes digne unto her excellence,
So is she sprong of noble stirpe and high:
A world of honour and of reverence
There is in her, this wil I testifie.
Calliope, thou sister wise and sly,
And thou, Minerva, guyde me with thy grace,
That langage rude my mater not deface.

Thy suger-dropes swete of Elicon
Distill in me, thou gentle Muse, I pray;
And thee, Melpomene, I calle anon,
Of ignoraunce the mist to chace away;
And give me grace so for to write and sey,
That she, my lady, of her worthinesse,
Accepte in gree this litel short tretesse,

That is entitled thus, 'The Court of Love.'
And ye that ben metriciens me excuse,
I you besech, for Venus sake above;
For what I mene in this ye need not muse:
And if so be my lady it refuse
For lak of ornat speche, I wold be wo,
That I presume to her to writen so.

But myn entent and all my besy cure
Is for to write this tretesse, as I can,
Unto my lady, stable, true, and sure,
Feithfull and kind, sith first that she began
Me to accept in service as her man:

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Canterbury Tales; Prologue

Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-

So priketh hem Nature in hir corages-
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende

Of Engelond, to Caunturbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for the seke
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke.
Bifil that in that seson, on a day,
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,

Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury, with ful devout corage,
At nyght were come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle

In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.
The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
And wel we weren esed atte beste;
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,

So hadde I spoken with hem everychon
That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,
And made forward erly for to ryse
To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse.
But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space,

Er that I ferther in this tale pace,
Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun
To telle yow al the condicioun
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,
And whiche they weren, and of what degree,

And eek in what array that they were inne;
And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne.

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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Owl House Blues

The spotted owl
Let out a howl!
(Being a Howl Owl
Not a Hoot Owl)
"I'm being treated most fowl!

"Bunyan Bobs
Worry about jobs,
While baby owls
Tote teary towels
From homeless sobs!

"They don't give a hoot
When we have a scoot!
We catch their mice
And treat them nice,
And, we get the boot!"

"They call Us a thief,
Never mind our grief!
We'll be out
In a treeless rout
And maybe called chief!

poem by Hugh Wallace
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Knyghthode and Bataile

A XVth Century Verse Paraphrase of Flavius Vegetius Renatus' Treatise 'DE RE MILITARI'

Proemium.
Salue, festa dies
i martis,
Mauortis! auete
Kalende. Qua Deus
ad celum subleuat
ire Dauid.

Hail, halyday deuout! Alhail Kalende
Of Marche, wheryn Dauid the Confessour
Commaunded is his kyngis court ascende;
Emanuel, Jhesus the Conquerour,
This same day as a Tryumphatour,
Sette in a Chaire & Throne of Maiestee,
To London is comyn. O Saviour,
Welcome a thousand fold to thi Citee!

And she, thi modir Blessed mot she be
That cometh eke, and angelys an ende,
Wel wynged and wel horsed, hidir fle,
Thousendys on this goode approche attende;
And ordir aftir ordir thei commende,
As Seraphin, as Cherubyn, as Throne,
As Domynaunce, and Princys hidir sende;
And, at o woord, right welcom euerychone!

But Kyng Herry the Sexte, as Goddes Sone
Or themperour or kyng Emanuel,
To London, welcomer be noo persone;
O souuerayn Lord, welcom! Now wel, Now wel!
Te Deum to be songen, wil do wel,
And Benedicta Sancta Trinitas!
Now prosperaunce and peax perpetuel
Shal growe,-and why? ffor here is Vnitas.

Therof to the Vnitee 'Deo gracias'
In Trinitee! The Clergys and Knyghthode
And Comynaltee better accorded nas
Neuer then now; Now nys ther noon abode,
But out on hem that fordoon Goddes forbode,
Periurous ar, Rebellovs and atteynte,
So forfaytinge her lyif and lyvelode,
Although Ypocrisie her faytys peynte.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Fogging Up The Windows

the sound of a small child crying
hungry in the night
of a young woman sleepless
waiting for daylight
the sound of church bells ringing
not too far away
the sound of an old man dying
remembering how to pray

the sound of two hearts breaking
a thousand miles apart
of the last tear a fallin'
unseen in the dark
the sound of lifetimes wasted
of a love that didnt last
the sound of memories forgotten
of a time already past

can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'

life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...

the sound of the nails driven
into His screaming hands
the sound of salvation
entrusted to a man
the sound of bodies falling
of buildings swept by flame
the sound of different voices
whose souls are the same

can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'

life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room....

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Book Of The Duchesse

THE PROEM

I have gret wonder, be this lighte,
How that I live, for day ne nighte
I may nat slepe wel nigh noght,
I have so many an ydel thoght
Purely for defaute of slepe
That, by my trouthe, I take no kepe
Of no-thing, how hit cometh or goth,
Ne me nis no-thing leef nor loth.
Al is y-liche good to me --
Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be --
For I have feling in no-thinge,
But, as it were, a mased thing,
Alway in point to falle a-doun;
For sorwful imaginacioun
Is alway hoolly in my minde.
And wel ye wite, agaynes kynde
Hit were to liven in this wyse;
For nature wolde nat suffyse
To noon erthely creature
Not longe tyme to endure
Withoute slepe, and been in sorwe;
And I ne may, ne night ne morwe,
Slepe; and thus melancolye
And dreed I have for to dye,
Defaute of slepe and hevinesse
Hath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse,
That I have lost al lustihede.
Suche fantasies ben in myn hede
So I not what is best to do.
But men myght axe me, why soo
I may not slepe, and what me is?
But natheles, who aske this
Leseth his asking trewely.
My-selven can not telle why
The sooth; but trewely, as I gesse,
I holde hit be a siknesse
That I have suffred this eight yere,
And yet my bote is never the nere;
For ther is phisicien but oon,
That may me hele; but that is doon.
Passe we over until eft;
That wil not be, moot nede be left;
Our first matere is good to kepe.
So whan I saw I might not slepe,
Til now late, this other night,
Upon my bedde I sat upright
And bad oon reche me a book,
A romaunce, and he hit me took

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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The Parliament Of Fowles

Here begynyth the Parlement of Foulys

THE PROEM

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,
Thassay so hard, so sharp the conquering,
The dredful Ioy, that alwey slit so yerne,
Al this mene I by love, that my feling
Astonyeth with his wonderful worching
So sore y-wis, that whan I on him thinke,
Nat wot I wel wher that I wake or winke.

For al be that I knowe nat love in dede,
Ne wot how that he quyteth folk hir hyre,
Yet happeth me ful ofte in bokes rede
Of his miracles, and his cruel yre;
Ther rede I wel he wol be lord and syre,
I dar not seyn, his strokes been so sore,
But God save swich a lord! I can no more.

Of usage, what for luste what for lore,
On bokes rede I ofte, as I yow tolde.
But wherfor that I speke al this? not yore
Agon, hit happed me for to beholde
Upon a boke, was write with lettres olde;
And ther-upon, a certeyn thing to lerne,
The longe day ful faste I radde and yerne.

For out of olde feldes, as men seith,
Cometh al this newe corn fro yeer to yere;
And out of olde bokes, in good feith,
Cometh al this newe science that men lere.
But now to purpos as of this matere --
To rede forth hit gan me so delyte,
That al the day me thoughte but a lyte.

This book of which I make of mencioun,
Entitled was al thus, as I shal telle,
`Tullius of the dreme of Scipioun.';
Chapitres seven hit hadde, of hevene and helle,
And erthe, and soules that therinnr dwelle,
Of whiche, as shortly as I can hit trete,
Of his sentence I wol you seyn the grete.

First telleth hit, whan Scipion was come
In Afrik, how he mette Massinisse,
That him for Ioye in armes hath y nome.
Than telleth hit hir speche and al the blisse
That was betwix hem, til the day gan misse;
And how his auncestre, African so dere,

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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Billy's Alphabetical Animal Show

A was an elegant Ape
Who tied up his ears with red tape,
And wore a long veil
Half revealing his tail
Which was trimmed with jet bugles and crape.

B was a boastful old Bear
Who used to say,--'Hoomh! I declare
I can eat--if you'll get me
The children, and let me--
Ten babies, teeth, toenails and hair!'

C was a Codfish who sighed
When snatched from the home of his pride,
But could he, embrined,
Guess this fragrance behind,
How glad he would be that he died!

D was a dandified Dog
Who said,--'Though it's raining like fog
I wear no umbrellah,
Me boy, for a fellah
Might just as well travel incog!'

E was an elderly Eel
Who would say,--'Well, I really feel--
As my grandchildren wriggle
And shout 'I should giggle'--
A trifle run down at the heel!'

F was a Fowl who conceded
_Some_ hens might hatch more eggs than _she_ did,--
But she'd children as plenty
As eighteen or twenty,
And that was quite all that she needed.

G was a gluttonous Goat
Who, dining one day, _table-d'hote,_
Ordered soup-bone, _au fait_,
And fish, _papier-mache_,
And a _filet_ of Spring overcoat.

H was a high-cultured Hound
Who could clear forty feet at a bound,
And a coon once averred
That his howl could be heard
For five miles and three-quarters around.

I was an Ibex ambitious
To dive over chasms auspicious;

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Booty-Boo-Doo-The Caboose

I'm not going to hide,
Any love you see this evening.
I'm much too needing on my side...
And I want it known as shown,
I've come with... some pride.

I'm not going to hide inside of me,
This evening.
Too much I let collect in dust.
And too much I don't want to get rusty.
I've got enough in me to boot and hoot.

It doesn't matter if my ladder,
Can get up to reach the roof!

I know my ladder apparatus,
And it's there to give a boost.

Booty-boo-doo-the caboose.
I know my ladder apparatus,
And it's there to give a boost.

Booty-boo-doo-the caboose.
I know my ladder apparatus,
And it's there to give a boost.

Booty-boo-doo-the cabooster.
Booty-boo-doo-the caboose.
Booty-boo-doo-the cabooster.
Booty-boo-doo-the caboose.

Booty-boo-doo-the cabooster.
I know my ladder apparatus,
And it's there to give a boost.

I'm not going to hide inside of me,
This evening.
Too much I let collect in dust.
And too much I don't want to get rusty.
I've got enough in me to boot and hoot.

Booty-boo-doo-the cabooster.
I know my ladder apparatus,
And it's there to give a boost.
I know my ladder apparatus,
And it's there to give a boost.

Booty-boo-doo-the cabooster.
Booty-boo-doo-the caboose.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cooped and Booted

Those slayed by capers and duped!
Finger pop and bop.
Raked and scraped up to be dropped.
Hip hop.
Hip hop.
And pooped by a looping that scoops.
Easily snooped,
As they holler with a hooping hoot,
Cooped.

Those slayed by capers and duped!
Finger pop and bop.
Raked and scraped up to be dropped.
Hip hop.
Hip hop.
And pooped by a looping that scoops.
Easily snooped,
As they holler with a hooping hoot,
Cooped.

Those...
Slayed by capers and duped!
Finger pop and bop.
Raked and scraped up to be dropped.
Sing,
Cockadoodle doodle doodle doo.
While cooped and booted.
Cockadoodle doodle doodle doo.
Cooped! .
Cockadoodle doodle doodle doo.
And booted.
Cockadoodle doodle doodle doo.

Those slayed by capers and duped!
Like roosters trained,
To boost the hens...
To,
Cockadoodle doodle doodle doo.

Those slayed by capers and duped!
Like roosters trained,
To boost the hens...
To,
Cockadoodle doodle doodle doo.
And booted.
Cockadoodle doodle doodle doo.
Cooped!
Cockadoodle doodle doodle doo.
And booted.
Cockadoodle doodle doodle doo.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sad Sacking Uncle Daddies

My heart goes out,
To those unknown who carry...
In their minds they can not rid,
The fact...
They are the products,
Of some sad sacking uncle daddies.

And these uncle daddies brag about their kids.
As if supporting them is what they did!
But they don't care a bit.
OR do a disciplining.
All these uncle daddies do,
Is dropp a seed to leave and scoot.

I'd like to shout from rooftops,
But to who would give a hoot?
I'd like to stick my booted foot,
Up a pooter with a couth.

But...
Who would benefit from it?
Not the kids who walk around,
With feelings dismissed.

I'd like to shout from rooftops,
But to who would give a hoot?
I'd like to stick my booted foot,
Up a pooter with a couth.
To knock some sense in uncle daddies.
Those sad sacking uncle daddies.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fire-Pit

How soon those eyes of yours
stretch across
to grab me by the soul
and squeeze
til heart drops drip
drip drip
and my knees
clank away
shaking.

Each time I say
I will not
let
these feelings sway.

My common sense
turns away
abandoning me;
my helpless self,
my angry self
my begrudging self
all line up inside me
and caterwaul;

leaving me exposed
to fiery rising Excitements Touch
poising above my soul straining
against Respondment's call
but l am losing the will-
my soul fluid
dripping away.
.
Where is the key you have
which unlocks my door?

Where is the silent heart-switch
which clicks
turning on my heart?

Where is that definition of love
that here fits?

This is a core mystery
I share with you
even when I don't want to:
even when I want to hide or run.

When my tent flap is closed
it opens
by my own hand,

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Regiment of Princes

Musynge upon the restlees bysynesse
Which that this troubly world hath ay on honde,
That othir thyng than fruyt of bittirnesse
Ne yildith naght, as I can undirstonde,
At Chestres In, right faste by the Stronde,
As I lay in my bed upon a nyght,
Thoght me byrefte of sleep the force and might. 1

And many a day and nyght that wikkid hyne
Hadde beforn vexed my poore goost
So grevously that of angwissh and pyne
No rycher man was nowhere in no coost.
This dar I seyn, may no wight make his boost
That he with thoght was bet than I aqweynted,
For to the deeth he wel ny hath me feynted.

Bysyly in my mynde I gan revolve
The welthe unseur of every creature,
How lightly that Fortune it can dissolve
Whan that hir list that it no lenger dure;
And of the brotilnesse of hir nature
My tremblynge herte so greet gastnesse hadde
That my spirites were of my lyf sadde.

Me fil to mynde how that nat longe agoo
Fortunes strook doun thraste estat rial
Into mescheef, and I took heede also
Of many anothir lord that hadde a fal.
In mene estat eek sikirnesse at al
Ne saw I noon, but I sy atte laste
Wher seuretee for to abyde hir caste.

In poore estat shee pighte hir pavyloun
To kevere hir fro the storm of descendynge 2
For shee kneew no lower descencion
Sauf oonly deeth, fro which no wight lyvynge
Deffende him may; and thus in my musynge
I destitut was of joie and good hope,
And to myn ese nothyng cowde I grope.

For right as blyve ran it in my thoght,
Thogh poore I be, yit sumwhat leese I may.
Than deemed I that seurtee wolde noght
With me abyde; it is nat to hir pay
Ther to sojourne as shee descende may.
And thus unsikir of my smal lyflode,
Thoght leide on me ful many an hevy lode.

I thoghte eek, if I into povert creepe,
Than am I entred into sikirnesse;

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hoccleve
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Boom-boom, Lonely-hearts are in Gloom Hums a Red Flamingo

Eek! On the moonless sky, grey clouds are ashen and sober;
Trees are swaying helter-skelter with leaves tousled and sere
As west wind drives the minute nature in a conspirative plot,
voodooed by an autumn night, a lonesome pine in an orphic thought.
Jibber, jabber joo! Wig, wiggly woo in lonely flu - boo hoo!
Boom-boom, Lonely-hearts are in gloom hums a red flamingo.

Gee! In a deserted and isolated lonesome valley, I met my ally;
while Ploughing a lonely furrow, I caught him - a nervous Nelly;
His soul is a tattered cloud and his heart is a battered sea
As tender sapling in him is not watered, oh, I met him in me.
Jibber, jabber joo! Wig, wiggly woo in lonely flu - boo hoo!
Boom-boom, Lonely-hearts are in gloom hums a red flamingo.

hardy-har-har! My whole world went black with air looked black,
Sun looked black; I laid in bed and stared at room walls dark,
Outside I still always appear bright with a mask, Ooh-la-la
Hoodooed by single crow I remain in a pitch dark inside, blah!
Jibber, jabber joo! Wig, wiggly woo in lonely flu - boo hoo!
Boom-boom, Lonely-hearts are in gloom hums a red flamingo.

Hoot-hoot! It's loneliness that makes the brassiest noise
Without any voice, it tomahawks lonely-hearts, oh dear boys;
Before it bites, even rattlesnake warns you in a chiller-thriller;
Alas! Without any sound Lonely Cyclops burns you - a whale killer.
Jibber, jabber joo! Wig, wiggly woo in lonely flu - boo hoo!
Boom-boom, Lonely-hearts are in gloom hums a red flamingo

poem by Harindhar Reddy
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No; we have been as usual asking the wrong question. It does not matter a hoot what the mockingbird on the chimney is singing. The real and proper question is: Why is it beautiful?

quote by Bertrand Russell
Added by Lucian Velea
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When I first became interested in photography, I thought it was the whole cheese. My idea was to have it recognized as one of the fine arts. Today I don't give a hoot in hell about that. The mission of photography is to explain man to man and each man to himself.

quote by Edward Steichen
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The one that was most fun was That's My Bush; the part that I did for Comedy Central. That was a hoot. That was more fun that one should be allowed to have.

quote by Timothy Bottoms
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