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Greed, the Common Factor

All that you clutch
You will lose:
You have to.
All that you think you own
Is not yours:
It must be lost
For it is a mere vision.
And then your hurt
-Yours-
Is real, is it not?
No decision.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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How Can You Drive With A Stuck Clutch?

Why do you do what you do with a stuck clutch?
Or are you proving you can drive and do it without limits.
Why you do what you do with a stuck clutch?
Or is this your way of showing me,
With a mind you can overcome...
To get what's done.

Why do you do what you do with a stuck clutch?
Or are you proving you can drive and do it without limits.
Why you do what you do with a stuck clutch?
Or is this your way of showing me,
With a mind you can overcome...
To get what's done.

How can you drive with a stuck clutch?
I've never seen it done.
How can you drive with a stuck clutch?
You're the only one.
How can you drive with a stuck clutch?
Is this your way of showing me,
With a mind you can overcome...
To get what's done.

How can you drive with a stuck clutch?
I've never seen it done.
How can you drive with a stuck clutch?
You're the only one.
How can you drive with a stuck clutch?
Is this your way of showing me,
With a mind you can overcome...
To get what's done.

Why do you do what you do with a stuck clutch?
Or are you proving you can drive and do it without limits.
Why you do what you do with a stuck clutch?
Is this your way of showing me,
With a mind you can overcome...
To get what's done.

How can you drive with a stuck clutch?
Is this your way of showing me,
With a mind you can overcome...
To get what's done.

How can you drive with a stuck clutch?
You're the only one.
How can you drive with a stuck clutch?
Is this your way of showing me,
With a mind you can overcome...
To get what's done.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Who Hurts Whom?

Hurt, is that lesson of life,
Perfect pool of Imperfects,

A kid may get hurt
Or may hurt its parents too
its parents may hurt
Or may hurt their kid too,

A brother may get hurt,
or he may hurt brothers and sisters too,
Sister gets hurt
Or she may hurt her brothers and sisters too,

Mother gets hurt or she my may hurt father too.
Father may get hurt Or may hurt mother too,

A friend gets hurt
Or may hurt his friend too!
A lover get hurts, or may hurt one's lover too,

Teacher may gets hurt
Or may hurt student too
Student gets hurt Or he may hurt his teacher too,

Life is a pool of Imperfects
And only Imperfects can perfect life,
And life is that greatest class room,
Where the greatest and perfect teacher teaches perfect lessons,

But life when teaches, we just close the chapter,
'saying it is our fate! '

Is it true that one has to hurt others to make his living?
Living a life, and make a Living aren't the differ?

People are determined to build life than live a life,
Where one may hurt others,

This the story of Buddha asking kisa Gouthami ' I will save your child, but bring handful of mustard from a home where death not entered! '

This is the story,
'I will heal your hurts, if you can bring some dust of a man's feet, whoever neither got hurt nor hurt others! '

Life a that teaches and hurt is that lesson,
Which shows the one who hurts is Imperfect than who gets hurt,
Both are still imperfect,
The one got hurt is more imperfect,
And he is the one who hurts himself,
by his desires and expectations,
He is the one who gives chance to others to hurt,

[...] Read more

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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You Can't Lose At Love (Crush Demo)

You can lose at cards
You can lose your keys
You can lose the house or lose the lease
You can lose your car, you can lose the race
You can lose your mind or lose your faith
Take a look around and hear what I've gotta say
You can't lose at love
No, you can't lose at love
You can't lose at love
You can't lose at love
Chose anything you can dream of
No, you can't lose at love
We could lose the plot
Or we could lose our way
But I ain't going to lose
These ain't good games we're playing
Let me make you an offer too good to refuse
No, you can't lose at love
No, you can't lose at love
You can't lose at love
You can't lose at love
Chose anything you can dream of
But you can't lose at love
Now we just might roll a seven, these ain't loaded dice
We'll never get to heaven from this driveway tonight
You've heard a million promises that's never come through
Baby I'm telling you we're due
You can't lose at love
You can't lose at love
Chose anything you can dream of
But baby, you can't lose at love
Take a chance on me
Cause you can't lose at love
Take a chance on me
No, you can't lose at love
Take a chance on me
You can't lose at love
No, you can't lose at love
You can't lose at love
You can't lose
You can't lose

song performed by Bon Jovi
Added by Lucian Velea
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Nothin To Lose

Before I had a baby
I didnt care anyway
I thought about the back door
I didnt know what to say
But once I got a baby
I, I tried every way
She didnt wanna do it
But she did anyway
But baby please dont refuse
You know you got nothin to lose
You got nothin to lose
You got, got nothin to lose, well nothin
You got, got nothin to lose, yeah baby
You got, got nothin to lose
You got, got nothin to lose, you g-g-g-g-got nothin
You got, got nothin to lose, well come on mama
You got, got nothin to lose, yeah shake your
You got, got
You got, you got, you got nothin to lose
So now Ive got a baby
And weve tried every way
You know she wants to do it
And she does anyway
But baby please dont refuse
You know you got nothin to lose
You got nothin to lose
You got, got nothin to lose, yeah baby
You got, got nothin to lose, yeah
You got, got nothin to lose, you feel so good
You got, got nothin to lose, well come on mama
You got, got nothin to lose, ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch yeah
You got, got nothin to lose, well come on
You got, got
You got, you got you, got nothin to lose
You got, got nothin to lose
You got, got nothin to lose, ooh baby
You got, got nothin to lose, yeah
You got, got nothin to lose, yeah
You got, got nothin to lose, oh you g-g-got, baby
You got, got nothin to lose, shake it honey
You got, got nothin to lose, oh you know youre a sweet thing
You got, got nothin to lose, oh really mama
You got, got nothin to lose, yeah you really can move it
You got, got nothin to lose, oh you g-g-got nothin
You got, got nothin to lose,
Yeah shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it
You got, got nothin to lose
You got, got nothin to lose
You got, got

song performed by Kiss
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Holy Grail

From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale,
Whom Arthur and his knighthood called The Pure,
Had passed into the silent life of prayer,
Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl
The helmet in an abbey far away
From Camelot, there, and not long after, died.

And one, a fellow-monk among the rest,
Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the rest,
And honoured him, and wrought into his heart
A way by love that wakened love within,
To answer that which came: and as they sat
Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn
That puffed the swaying branches into smoke
Above them, ere the summer when he died
The monk Ambrosius questioned Percivale:

`O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke,
Spring after spring, for half a hundred years:
For never have I known the world without,
Nor ever strayed beyond the pale: but thee,
When first thou camest--such a courtesy
Spake through the limbs and in the voice--I knew
For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall;
For good ye are and bad, and like to coins,
Some true, some light, but every one of you
Stamped with the image of the King; and now
Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round,
My brother? was it earthly passion crost?'

`Nay,' said the knight; `for no such passion mine.
But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail
Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries,
And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out
Among us in the jousts, while women watch
Who wins, who falls; and waste the spiritual strength
Within us, better offered up to Heaven.'

To whom the monk: `The Holy Grail!--I trust
We are green in Heaven's eyes; but here too much
We moulder--as to things without I mean--
Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours,
Told us of this in our refectory,
But spake with such a sadness and so low
We heard not half of what he said. What is it?
The phantom of a cup that comes and goes?'

`Nay, monk! what phantom?' answered Percivale.

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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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
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You Can't Lose Me

Oooh
Yeah yeah
You can't lose me
You can lose your faith in loving
You can lose the will to trust, you'll see
You can't lose me
You can lose control let loose your senses
Lose your strength lose your defenses
You'll see, you'll see, you'll see
You can't lose me
You can't lose me cause I'm not leaving
You can't lose me cause I won't go
I'm gonna be there like a shadow you won't ever be alone
I'll be the sun that shines above you
All around you everywhere
I'll be there
You can lose your way, lose your possessions
Lose your mind and lose direction
You'll see, you'll see, you'll see
You can't lose me
You can't lose me cause I'm not leaving
You can't lose me cause I won't go
I'm gonna be there like a shadow you won't ever be alone
I'll be the sun that shines upon you
All around you everywhere
I'll be there
You can lose your way, lose your possessions
Lose your mind and lose direction
You'll see, you'll see, you'll see
You can't lose me
You can lose your faith
You can lose your way
I'm gonna be there
This will never change
No no no no no
You can't lose me
You can lose your faith
You can lose your way
I'm gonna be there
This will never change
Oh yeah
You can't lose me...lose me

song performed by O-town
Added by Lucian Velea
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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
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Dont Lose Your Head

Words and music by roger taylor
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
No dont lose you head
Dont lose you head
Hear what I say
Dont lose your way - yeah
Remember loves stronger remember love walks tall
Dont lose your heart
Dont lose your heart
No dont lose your heart
Dont lose your heart
Hear what I say
Hear what I say - yeah
Dont lose your way
Dont lose your way - yeah
Remember loves stronger remember love walks through
Walls
Dont drink and drive my car
Dont get breathalised
Dont lose your head
If you make it to the top and you wanna stay alive
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
No dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
Hear what I say
Hear what I say - yeah
Dont lose your way
Hey dont lose your way
Remember loves stronger remember love conquers all
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head
Dont lose your head

song performed by Queen
Added by Lucian Velea
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IX. Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius, Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus

Had I God's leave, how I would alter things!
If I might read instead of print my speech,—
Ay, and enliven speech with many a flower
Refuses obstinate to blow in print,
As wildings planted in a prim parterre,—
This scurvy room were turned an immense hall;
Opposite, fifty judges in a row;
This side and that of me, for audience—Rome:
And, where yon window is, the Pope should hide—
Watch, curtained, but peep visibly enough.
A buzz of expectation! Through the crowd,
Jingling his chain and stumping with his staff,
Up comes an usher, louts him low, "The Court
"Requires the allocution of the Fisc!"
I rise, I bend, I look about me, pause
O'er the hushed multitude: I count—One, two—

Have ye seen, Judges, have ye, lights of law,—
When it may hap some painter, much in vogue
Throughout our city nutritive of arts,
Ye summon to a task shall test his worth,
And manufacture, as he knows and can,
A work may decorate a palace-wall,
Afford my lords their Holy Family,—
Hath it escaped the acumen of the Court
How such a painter sets himself to paint?
Suppose that Joseph, Mary and her Babe
A-journeying to Egypt, prove the piece:
Why, first he sedulously practiseth,
This painter,—girding loin and lighting lamp,—
On what may nourish eye, make facile hand;
Getteth him studies (styled by draughtsmen so)
From some assistant corpse of Jew or Turk
Or, haply, Molinist, he cuts and carves,—
This Luca or this Carlo or the like.
To him the bones their inmost secret yield,
Each notch and nodule signify their use:
On him the muscles turn, in triple tier,
And pleasantly entreat the entrusted man
"Familiarize thee with our play that lifts
"Thus, and thus lowers again, leg, arm and foot!"
—Ensuring due correctness in the nude.
Which done, is all done? Not a whit, ye know!
He,—to art's surface rising from her depth,—
If some flax-polled soft-bearded sire be found,
May simulate a Joseph, (happy chance!)—
Limneth exact each wrinkle of the brow,
Loseth no involution, cheek or chap,
Till lo, in black and white, the senior lives!
Is it a young and comely peasant-nurse

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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But For Being Lost

As black imbued black, so was rendered the pitch of darkness
That befogged this godforsaken yard of graves -
And too the dank, ‘til now forgotten chapel that
Did little to grace these forlorn grounds.

Yet here stood I, seemingly first to tread this weed-ridden soil
Since times of yore when life had erstwhile blessed this land.
But for being lost in solitude - as does a country wanderer -
Would I not have happened across this morbid landscape.

And though detail rendered barely visible to my naked eye –
For desperately had the moon tried to break through this jet fog –
A sense of something suffused the place.
Was it those tormented spirits desperate for absolution,
Or perhaps the gargoyles teasing me on whether they be of stone or living flesh?

I was drawn to the oak door as it enticingly opened in passage for me.
The organ called from down the nave and through the pale orange of unsteady light
- that which could only be mustered from the few discoloured, moribund candles.
Could I also hear a distant choir of stern voices, as if in effort to scold me?

As I approached, those tarnished pipes came into view.
Standing erect with gothic pride, they bore down on me with patronising air -
Exaggerated by the disjointed sneering of minor chords,
As if to state that insignificant I had henceforth no grant of solace.

In answer, I steadied my rocking legs and racing mind to wonder of this scenario.
And in doing so, I found myself waking from a cramped dream –
Whence the message dawned: mine had been such a claustrophobic life.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Reverse Reality

when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision

poem by Nyein Way
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Third Book

'TO-DAY thou girdest up thy loins thyself,
And goest where thou wouldest: presently
Others shall gird thee,' said the Lord, 'to go
Where thou would'st not.' He spoke to Peter thus,
To signify the death which he should die
When crucified head downwards.
If He spoke
To Peter then, He speaks to us the same;
The word suits many different martyrdoms,
And signifies a multiform of death,
Although we scarcely die apostles, we,
And have mislaid the keys of heaven and earth.

For tis not in mere death that men die most;
And, after our first girding of the loins
In youth's fine linen and fair broidery,
To run up hill and meet the rising sun,
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool,
While others gird us with the violent bands
Of social figments, feints, and formalisms,
Reversing our straight nature, lifting up
Our base needs, keeping down our lofty thoughts,
Head downward on the cross-sticks of the world.
Yet He can pluck us from the shameful cross.
God, set our feet low and our forehead high,
And show us how a man was made to walk!

Leave the lamp, Susan, and go up to bed.
The room does very well; I have to write
Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get away;
Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room,
Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters! throw them down
At once, as I must have them, to be sure,
Whether I bid you never bring me such
At such an hour, or bid you. No excuse.
You choose to bring them, as I choose perhaps
To throw them in the fire. Now, get to bed,
And dream, if possible, I am not cross.

Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,–
A mere, mere woman,–a mere flaccid nerve,-
A kerchief left out all night in the rain,
Turned soft so,–overtasked and overstrained
And overlived in this close London life!
And yet I should be stronger.
Never burn
Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare
With red seals from the table, saying each,
'Here's something that you know not.' Out alas,
'Tis scarcely that the world's more good and wise

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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What Is Love?

what is love
Oh baby, don't hurt me
Don't hurt me no more
Oh, baby don't hurt me
Don't hurt me no more
What is love
Yeah
Oh, i don't know why you're not there
I give you my love, but you don't care
So what is right and what is wrong
Gimme a sign
What is love
Oh baby, don't hurt me
Don't hurt me no more
What is love
Oh baby, don't hurt me
Don't hurt me no more
Whoa whoa whoa, oooh oooh
Whoa whoa whoa, oooh oooh
Oh, i don't know, what can i do
What else can i say, it's up to you
I know we're one, just me and you
I can't go on
What is love
Oh baby, don't hurt me
Don't hurt me no more
What is love
Oh baby, don't hurt me
Don't hurt me no more
Whoa whoa whoa, oooh oooh
Whoa whoa whoa, oooh oooh
What is love, oooh, oooh, oooh
What is love, oooh, oooh, oooh
What is love
Oh baby, don't hurt me
Don't hurt me no more
Don't hurt me
Don't hurt me
I want no other, no other lover
This is your life, our time
When we are together, i need you forever
Is it love
What is love
Oh baby, don't hurt me
Don't hurt me no more
What is love
Oh baby, don't hurt me
Don't hurt me no more (oooh, oooh)
What is love
Oh baby, don't hurt me

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song performed by Haddaway
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Womans Worth

You could buy me diamonds , you could buy me pearls
Take me on a cruise around the world
Baby you know Im worth it
Dinner lit by candles, run my bubble bath
Make love tenderly to last and last
Baby you know Im worth it
Wanna please wanna keep wanna treat your woman right
Not just told but to show she is worth your time
You will lose if you choose to refuse to put her first
She will if she cant find a man who knows her worth, mhmn
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint afraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
If you treat me fairly Ill give you all my goods
Treat you like a real woman should
Baby I know your worth it
If you never play me , promise not to bluff
Ill hold it down when it gets ruff
Baby I know your worth it
She rolls the mile makes you smile all the while being true
Dont take for granted the passion that she has for you
You will lose if you choose to refuse to put her first
She will if she cant find a man who knows her worth. oh
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint afraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
No need to read between the lines, spell it out for you
Just hear this song cuz you cant go wrong when you value
A woman,woman,woman, a womans worth
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint fraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint fraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
Mhmn mhmn mhmn mhmn mhmn mhmn

song performed by Alicia Keys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Easter-Day

HOW very hard it is to be
A Christian! Hard for you and me,
—Not the mere task of making real
That duty up to its ideal,
Effecting thus complete and whole,
A purpose or the human soul—
For that is always hard to do;
But hard, I mean, for me and you
To realise it, more or less,
With even the moderate success
Which commonly repays our strife
To carry out the aims of life.
“This aim is greater,” you may say,
“And so more arduous every way.”
—But the importance of the fruits
Still proves to man, in all pursuits,
Proportional encouragement.
“Then, what if it be God’s intent
“That labour to this one result
“Shall seem unduly difficult?”
—Ah, that’s a question in the dark—
And the sole thing that I remark
Upon the difficulty, this;
We do not see it where it is,
At the beginning of the race:
As we proceed, it shifts its place,
And where we looked for palms to fall,
We find the tug’s to come,—that’s all.

II.
At first you say, “The whole, or chief
“Of difficulties, is Belief.
“Could I believe once thoroughly,
“The rest were simple. What? Am I
“An idiot, do you think? A beast?
“Prove to me only that the least
“Command of God is God’s indeed,
“And what injunction shall I need
“To pay obedience? Death so nigh
“When time must end, eternity
“Begin,—and cannot I compute?
“Weigh loss and gain together? suit
“My actions to the balance drawn,
“And give my body to be sawn
“Asunder, hacked in pieces, tied
“To horses, stoned, burned, crucified,
“Like any martyr of the list?
“How gladly,—if I made acquist,
“Through the brief minutes’ fierce annoy,
“Of God’s eternity of joy.”

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poem by Robert Browning
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The Hurt

You say you want to seek the truth, but its hard to find
No one to help you, your friends dont have the time
So you ride around in your car. switch on the radio
You want to relate to something you once read in a book
What kind of a way to try to take a look
Until I got hurt I was looking, I was on my way
Until I got hurt, until I got hurt, darling I painted my face grey
Until I got hurt, till got hurt, why didnt i
I didnt think of this until I got hurt
till I got hurt. baby. I didnt know what love is
You say you want to learn to laugh cause music makes you cry
But the tears you shed are only in your eye
So you turn to any phoney mouth with a tale to tell
But hes just a hoaxer dont you know, selling peace and religion
Between his jokes and his karma chewing gum
Until I got hurt, I was looking, I was the same as you
Until I got hurt, until I got hurt, I did not know what to do
Until I got hurt, till I got hurt, why didnt i
I didnt think of this until I got hurt
till I got hurt, baby, I didnt know what love is
Young son, dont let me down, young son
Im trusting you to keep on, never turn away now
Hold on, never let go, now hold on
Turn your heart to the bright sun
Love will come your way
Cos till you make that final show
Youll never know what love youve been missing
Missing
You say you want to seek the truth but you work alone
No one to help you and nobody to push you on
So you sit at home drinking your wine, television on
You wait for a miracle, cos you say one day onell come along
(but wishful thinking, boy) any minute now you might be gone
Id like to help you brother but that would be wrong
Until I got hurt, I was looking, I was on my way
Until I got hurt, until I got hurt, darling I didnt know which way
Until I got hurt, till I got hurt, why didnt i
I didnt think of this until I got hurt
till I got hurt, baby, I didnt know what love is
Until I got hurt, oh I didnt know what love is

song performed by Cat Stevens
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Idols

An Ode
Luce intellettual, piena d' amore

Prelude
Lo, the spirit of a pulsing star within a stone
Born of earth, sprung from night!
Prisoned with the profound fires of the light
That lives like all the tongues of eloquence
Locked in a speech unknown!
The crystal, cold and hard as innocence,
Immures the flame; and yet as if it knew
Raptures or pangs it could not but betray,
As if the light could feel changes of blood and breath
And all--but--human quiverings of the sense,
Throbs of a sudden rose, a frosty blue,
Shoot thrilling in its ray,
Like the far longings of the intellect
Restless in clouding clay.

Who has confined the Light? Who has held it a slave,
Sold and bought, bought and sold?
Who has made of it a mystery to be doled,
Or trophy, to awe with legendary fire,
Where regal banners wave?
And still into the dark it sends Desire.
In the heart's darkness it sows cruelties.
The bright jewel becomes a beacon to the vile,
A lodestar to corruption, envy's own:
Soiled with blood, fought for, clutched at; this world's prize,
Captive Authority. Oh, the star is stone
To all that outward sight,
Yet still, like truth that none has ever used,
Lives lost in its own light.

Troubled I fly. O let me wander again at will
(Far from cries, far from these
Hard blindnesses and frozen certainties!)
Where life proceeds in vastness unaware
And stirs profound and still:
Where leafing thoughts at shy touch of the air
Tremble, and gleams come seeking to be mine,
Or dart, like suddenly remembered youth,
Like the ache of love, a light, lost, found, and lost again.
Surely in the dusk some messenger was there!
But, haunted in the heart, I thirst, I pine.--
Oh, how can truth be truth
Except I taste it close and sweet and sharp
As an apple to the tooth?

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poem by Robert Laurence Binyon
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Gareth And Lynette

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away.
'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight
Or evil king before my lance if lance
Were mine to use--O senseless cataract,
Bearing all down in thy precipitancy--
And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows
And mine is living blood: thou dost His will,
The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know,
Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall
Linger with vacillating obedience,
Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to--
Since the good mother holds me still a child!
Good mother is bad mother unto me!
A worse were better; yet no worse would I.
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force
To weary her ears with one continuous prayer,
Until she let me fly discaged to sweep
In ever-highering eagle-circles up
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop
Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,
A knight of Arthur, working out his will,
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came
With Modred hither in the summertime,
Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.
Modred for want of worthier was the judge.
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,
"Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he--
Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,
For he is alway sullen: what care I?'

And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair
Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child,
Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed,
'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.'
'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said,
'Being a goose and rather tame than wild,
Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved,
An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.'

And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine
Was finer gold than any goose can lay;
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.
And there was ever haunting round the palm
A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw

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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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