When a thing has been said and well, have no scruple. Take it and copy it.
quote by Anatole France
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I'm Goona Copy
I’m surely gonna copy,
Be it poem, DVD or floppy,
And win Nobel Prize and trophy.
I will copy poets all
Whether they are big or small
Ya! No one can make me stop
Till I scale a fame’s highest top.
At the beginning of age
When God made men in his own image
He started this “Plagiarist” trend
Which I am not gonna end.
And what is creativity?
If not an ability to hide
a source of theft
with impunity.
When there is nothing
original under the sun,
Why should I copy not
and deprive myself of fun.
So I’ll copy them word by word
be they Pablo, Shakespeare or Wordsworth.
I’ll copy them from morn to evening
And would excel HITESH and Kipling.
Can you prove, they were not plagiarist,
And had not copy from some poet’s list.
You can inform FBI, KGB or CIA,
But I won’t stop my wanton ways.
And I will copy without shame,
Till I earn big name and fame.
I will copy till people start copying me,
And then and then only I will
give up this vice with glee.: -)
(This poem is a sequel to poem, “hay all you people that like to copy” written by Melissa Schreuder)
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
19/05/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Copycat
They had an accident
And they never noticed anyway
A lack of originality
Couldnt focus on the day
So much for the radio
Everybody sounds the same
Everybody wears the same clothes now
And everybody plays the game
Copycat, copycat, copycat
Copy copy copy copy yourself
Copycat, copycat, copycat
Copy copy copy everyone else
Ive got a great idea
I will change things on my own
I see my vision very clear,
Wouldnt wanna be another clone
So much for the radio, the radio is sad
Sad, sad, sad
They had an accident
But they never noticed anyway
A lack of originality
Couldnt focus on the day
So much for the radio
Everybody sounds the same
Everybody wears the same clothes now,
And everybody plays the game
Copy everyone else x4
song performed by Cranberries
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Admiral Mike
(michael nesmith)
Peaceful music (bmi)
Lead vocal: micky dolenz
Youre selling ads you slimy toad
Dont smile at me and shake my hand
Youre killing me
Youre killing us
Because youre only
only selling ads
Youre selling ads you stupid twit
The naked lunch is on your knife
The homicides are suicides
Because youre only
only selling ads
Your copy kills
Your copy smells
Realities are crushed beneath the ads your copy sells
Go back to hell you giddy fools
There is no truth you cannot maim
He killed himself
You killed him first
Because youre only
only selling ads
Your copy kills
Your copy smells
Realities are crushed beneath the ads your copy sells
Youre selling ads you slimy toad
Dont smile at me and shake my hand
Youre killing me
Youre killing us
Because youre only
only selling ads
Because youre only only selling ads
Because youre only only selling ads
Because youre only only selling ads
song performed by Monkees
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Could You
There's something about you boy,
That makes me want to skip through the town,
In the rain with you.
There's something about you.
And it makes my heart skip every other beat like a broken record.
You asked me the other day, if you should sing a certain song to a girl.
I said it'd be romantic, go for it.
But as my fingers hit those keys, I could only anxiously think,
If he'll ever sing it to me.
So when you figure who you could like, who you should love.
Could you please consider me?
Hey, boy. You make me spechless...
It's not another copy of, will you just glance at me.
Not another copy of, won't you just say a word to me.
The question is for you and for me.
'Baby could you love me, like I want to love you? '
Smiley boy, we could have a future together with no end.
There would be no lies, fakes, or pretends
Boy, all our friends would be jelous of what we have together.
I'd go to every single soccer game.
Cheer the loudest from the stands.
You'd go to every one of my track meets,
Loving me so much, it's hard to understand.
Hey, boy. You make me spechless...
It's not another copy of, will you just glance at me.
Not another copy of, won't you just say a word to me.
The question is for you and for me.
'Baby could you love me, like I want to love you? '
I never thought, not ever considered
That I could feel the way I do for you now.
But I'm glad it planned out the way.
That's the way I want it to stay.
Hey, boy. You make me spechless...
It's not another copy of, will you just glance at me.
Not another copy of, won't you just say a word to me.
The question is for you and for me.
'Baby could you love me, like I want to love you? '
You're the perfect boy for me, the sweet prince charming
Of my daydreams, you're the one rescuing me.
You play guitar and sing, what a wonderful thing.
[...] Read more
poem by Khloe Chace
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360 Degrees (What Goes Around)
[GPM] Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
"There's just one thing I wanna say.."
[GPM] The reel to reel to reel to reel yo
"There's just one thing I wanna say.."
[GPM] Copy copy copy copy copy
"There's just one thing I wanna say.."
[GPM] We gonna hit it down like this
song performed by Grand Puba from Reel to Reel
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360 Degrees (What Goes Around)
[GPM] Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
"There's just one thing I wanna say.."
[GPM] The reel to reel to reel to reel yo
"There's just one thing I wanna say.."
[GPM] Copy copy copy copy copy
"There's just one thing I wanna say.."
[GPM] We gonna hit it down like this
song performed by Grand Puba from Reel to Reel
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A Fable For Critics
Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.'
Now, Daphne-before she was happily treeified-
Over all other blossoms the lily had deified,
And when she expected the god on a visit
('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit),
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care,
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair,
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses,
Like the day breaking through, the long night of her tresses;
So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible,
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable,
Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel),-
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,
As I shall at the--, when they cut up my book in it.
Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,
[...] Read more
poem by James Russell Lowell
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The Ghost - Book IV
Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Churchill
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Hudibras: Part 2 - Canto II
THE ARGUMENT
The Knight and Squire, in hot dispute,
Within an ace of falling out,
Are parted with a sudden fright
Of strange alarm, and stranger sight;
With which adventuring to stickle,
They're sent away in nasty pickle.
'Tis strange how some mens' tempers suit
(Like bawd and brandy) with dispute,
That for their own opinions stand last
Only to have them claw'd and canvast;
That keep their consciences in cases,
As fiddlers do their crowds and bases,
Ne'er to be us'd, but when they're bent
To play a fit for argument;
Make true and false, unjust and just,
Of no use but to be discust;
Dispute, and set a paradox
Like a straight boot upon the stocks,
And stretch it more unmercifully
Than HELMONT, MONTAIGN, WHITE, or TULLY,
So th' ancient Stoicks, in their porch,
With fierce dispute maintain'd their church;
Beat out their brains in fight and study,
To prove that Virtue is a Body;
That Bonum is an Animal,
Made good with stout polemic brawl;
in which some hundreds on the place
Were slain outright; and many a face
Retrench'd of nose, and eyes, and beard,
To maintain what their sect averr'd;
All which the Knight and Squire, in wrath,
Had like t' have suffered for their faith,
Each striving to make good his own,
As by the sequel shall be shown.
The Sun had long since, in the lap
Of THETIS, taken out his nap,
And, like a lobster boil'd, the morn
From black to red began to turn,
When HUDIBRAS, whom thoughts and aking,
'Twixt sleeping kept all night and waking,
Began to rub his drowsy eyes,
And from his couch prepar'd to rise,
Resolving to dispatch the deed
He vow'd to do with trusty speed.
But first, with knocking loud, and bawling,
He rouz'd the Squire, in truckle lolling;
[...] Read more
poem by Samuel Butler
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto I
THE ARGUMENT
The Knight and Squire resolve, at once,
The one the other to renounce.
They both approach the Lady's Bower;
The Squire t'inform, the Knight to woo her.
She treats them with a Masquerade,
By Furies and Hobgoblins made;
From which the Squire conveys the Knight,
And steals him from himself, by Night.
'Tis true, no lover has that pow'r
T' enforce a desperate amour,
As he that has two strings t' his bow,
And burns for love and money too;
For then he's brave and resolute,
Disdains to render in his suit,
Has all his flames and raptures double,
And hangs or drowns with half the trouble,
While those who sillily pursue,
The simple, downright way, and true,
Make as unlucky applications,
And steer against the stream their passions.
Some forge their mistresses of stars,
And when the ladies prove averse,
And more untoward to be won
Than by CALIGULA the Moon,
Cry out upon the stars, for doing
Ill offices to cross their wooing;
When only by themselves they're hindred,
For trusting those they made her kindred;
And still, the harsher and hide-bounder
The damsels prove, become the fonder.
For what mad lover ever dy'd
To gain a soft and gentle bride?
Or for a lady tender-hearted,
In purling streams or hemp departed?
Leap'd headlong int' Elysium,
Through th' windows of a dazzling room?
But for some cross, ill-natur'd dame,
The am'rous fly burnt in his flame.
This to the Knight could be no news,
With all mankind so much in use;
Who therefore took the wiser course,
To make the most of his amours,
Resolv'd to try all sorts of ways,
As follows in due time and place
No sooner was the bloody fight,
Between the Wizard, and the Knight,
[...] Read more
poem by Samuel Butler
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The Rosciad
Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.
Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Churchill
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I Am Me
(diana ross/freddie gorman/janie bradford)
Go deep in circles
To find it in me
Rain falls around to my beginnings
So many riddles of my identity
I know all the answers of who Im supposed to be
I am me
Good or bad
I am myself
Im no carbon copy of no one else
Right or wrong
I will stand up like a tree
Happy or sad
Good or bad
I am me
I am me
Following a move
Set up by some others
I would lose myself
And become another
Should I fail
And come to my ruin
Or if I succeed
It would be, be my doing
Im me
Good or bad
I am myself
Im no carbon copy of no one else
Right or wrong
I will stand up like a tree
Happy or sad
Good or bad
I am me
I am me
Different images
So many people see
Not knowing themselves
They are unique
To copy may be flattery
I understand
I can be a better me
Than anyone else
I am me
Good or bad
I am myself
Im no carbon copy of no one else
Right or wrong
I will stand up like a tree
Happy or sad
Good or bad
[...] Read more
song performed by Diana Ross
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Copy written Copy cats
Patience for what you want and what you have will soon flourish
Laughing in the sun’s eclipse is a sign of true courage
Close your eyes, hold your breath, and run see
The importance your mind and body places on money
And the madness it brings comes down in torrents
Because everyone else believes the paper’s important
I admit it’s necessary to get by on this turf
But success hardly equals every penny you’re worth
- Copy written copy cats purring on their master’s lap
Did God create man for Her own private screening?
Or did man create God to give his life meaning?
I believe in something much greater than myself
But not because I was told to by somebody else
Something’s keeping me breathing when I wake morning
If there isn’t, well I'm only here for the moment
There’s no way out of here so I hang on to my grin
Looking out of windows I can never look in
- Copy written copy cats purring on their master’s lap
Some don’t grab the reins ‘cause they think the saddle’s high
So they wait out the boredom ‘til their formaldehyde
I don’t believe in holy books, holy water or descriptions
I’m spiritual, but have no need for canons of religions
They’re too open to the powers of whomever’s in charge
For use on the less fortunate to fight for their cause
And that’s rarely anything to do with goodwill towards men
The real criminals don’t live inside the State Penn
poem by P.R. Prosper
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The Echo Of The Words
when you say something
i simply copy and paste
and you think i am not ok
when you say something
i simply copy and paste
and you think i am not ok
when you say something
i simply copy and paste
and you think i am not ok
when you say something
i simply copy and paste
and you think i am not ok
but i am ok, i am ok, i am ok.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When a thing has been said, and said well, have no scruple. Take it and copy it.
quote by Anatole France
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto III
THE ARGUMENT
The Knight and squire's prodigious Flight
To quit th' inchanted Bow'r by Night.
He plods to turn his amorous Suit
T' a Plea in Law, and prosecute
Repairs to Counsel, to advise
'Bout managing the Enterprise;
But first resolves to try by Letter,
And one more fair Address, to get her.
WHO wou'd believe what strange bugbears
Mankind creates itself of fears
That spring like fern, that insect weed,
Equivocally, without seed;
And have no possible foundation,
But merely in th' imagination;
And yet can do more dreadful feats
Than hags, with all their imps and teats
Make more bewitch and haunt themselves
Than all their nurseries of elves?
For fear does things so like a witch,
'Tis hard t' unriddle which is which:
Sets up Communities of senses,
To chop and change intelligences;
As Rosicrucian virtuosos
Can see with ears, and hear with noses;
And when they neither see nor hear,
Have more than both supply'd by fear
That makes 'em in the dark see visions,
And hag themselves with apparitions;
And when their eyes discover least,
Discern the subtlest objects best
Do things not contrary, alone,
To th' course of nature, but its own;
The courage of the bravest daunt,
And turn poltroons as valiant:
For men as resolute appear
With too much as too little fear
And when they're out of hopes of flying,
Will run away from death by dying;
Or turn again to stand it out,
And those they fled, like lions, rout.
This HUDIBRAS had prov'd too true,
Who, by the furies left perdue,
And haunted with detachments, sent
From Marshal Legion's regiment,
Was by a fiend, as counterfeit,
Reliev'd and rescu'd with a cheat;
[...] Read more
poem by Samuel Butler
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Table Talk
A. You told me, I remember, glory, built
On selfish principles, is shame and guilt;
The deeds that men admire as half divine,
Stark naught, because corrupt in their design.
Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears
The laurel that the very lightning spares;
Brings down the warrior’s trophy to the dust,
And eats into his bloody sword like rust.
B. I grant that, men continuing what they are,
Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war,
And never meant the rule should be applied
To him that fights with justice on his side.
Let laurels drench’d in pure Parnassian dews
Reward his memory, dear to every muse,
Who, with a courage of unshaken root,
In honour’s field advancing his firm foot,
Plants it upon the line that Justice draws,
And will prevail or perish in her cause.
‘Tis to the virtues of such men man owes
His portion in the good that Heaven bestows.
And, when recording History displays
Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days,
Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died,
Where duty placed them, at their country’s side;
The man that is not moved with what he reads,
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,
Unworthy of the blessings of the brave,
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
But let eternal infamy pursue
The wretch to nought but his ambition true,
Who, for the sake of filling with one blast
The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste.
Think yourself station’d on a towering rock,
To see a people scatter’d like a flock,
Some royal mastiff panting at their heels,
With all the savage thirst a tiger feels;
Then view him self-proclaim’d in a gazette
Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet.
The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced,
Those ensigns of dominion how disgraced!
The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour,
And Death’s own scythe, would better speak his power;
Then grace the bony phantom in their stead
With the king’s shoulder-knot and gay cockade;
Clothe the twin brethren in each other’s dress,
The same their occupation and success.
A. ‘Tis your belief the world was made for man;
Kings do but reason on the self-same plan:
Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn,
Who think, or seem to think, man made for them.
[...] Read more
poem by William Cowper
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Success is dangerous. One begins to copy oneself, and to copy oneself is more dangerous than to copy others. It leads to sterility.
quote by Pablo Picasso
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Man From Milwaukee
It started at a bus stop in the middle of nowhere
Sitting beside me was a man with no hair
]From the look on his face and the size of his toes
He comes from a place that nobody knows
Maybe I'm hallucinating, hyperventilating
Letting this big-toed bald man sitting here tell me about the sky
Maybe I'm hallucinating, hyperventilating
If you asked me now then I couldn't tell you why
I've been sitting here too long by a man from Milwaukee
He's been talking too long on his yellow walkie talkie
He's been talking to Mars but I think he's wacky
He says they'll come get him, come get him some day
He says where he's from is called Albertane
There they use more than 10% of the brain
But you couldn't tell it from they way they behave
They run around in underwear and they never shave
Or maybe I'm hallucinating, hyperventilating
Letting this big-toed bald man sitting here tell me about the sky
Maybe I'm hallucinating, hyperventilating
If you asked me now then I couldn't tell you why
(Repeat Chorus)
This is Mother Bird calling Baby Bird
Baby Bird come in, come in Baby Bird
For the love of Pete come in!
This is Baby Bird...sorry I was watching Court TV
Do you copy? Do you copy?
Of course we copy...24 hours a day...in color
You wouldn't believe me if I told you the rest
The man sitting by me who was barely dressed
Flew off to Milwaukee or perhaps Albertane
And left me at the bus stop just barely sane
I've been sitting here too long thinkin' about Milwaukee
I've been talking too long on my yellow walkie talkie
I'm talking to Mars you may think I'm wacky
I know they'll come get me, come get me someday
I know they'll come get me and take me away
I know they'll come get me, come get me someday
If not tomorrow then maybe today
song performed by Hanson
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Success is dangerous. One begins to copy oneself, and to copy oneself is more dangerous than to copy others. It leads to sterility.
aphorism by Pablo Picasso
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