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Life is like a glass door. You might not be able to open it, but you can certainly see beyond it.

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As Like The Woman As You Can

'As like the Woman as you can' -
(Thus the New Adam was beguiled) -
'So shall you touch the Perfect Man' -
(God in the Garden heard and smiled).
'Your father perished with his day:
'A clot of passions fierce and blind,
'He fought, he hacked, he crushed his way:
'Your muscles, Child, must be of mind.

'The Brute that lurks and irks within,
'How, till you have him gagged and bound,
'Escape the foullest form of Sin?'
(God in the Garden laughed and frowned).
'So vile, so rank, the bestial mood
'In which the race is bid to be,
'It wrecks the Rarer Womanhood:
'Live, therefore, you, for Purity!

'Take for your mate no gallant croup,
'No girl all grace and natural will:
'To work her mission were to stoop,
'Maybe to lapse, from Well to Ill.
'Choose one of whom your grosser make' -
(God in the Garden laughed outright) -
'The true refining touch may take,
'Till both attain to Life's last height.

'There, equal, purged of soul and sense.
'Beneficent, high-thinking, just,
'Beyond the appeal of Violence,
'Incapable of common Lust,
'In mental Marriage still prevail' -
(God in the Garden hid His face) -
'Till you achieve that Female-Male
'In Which shall culminate the race.'

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Life is like

Life is like a wild animal,
you never know what its going to do next

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Life Is Like A Dream

Life is like a dream,
That is a mystery as it may seem,
That can grow like a team,
Aint that bout a dream.

Life is like a dream,
Because you want to know what it means,
Life gets hot like steam,
Aint that bout a dream.

Life is like a dream,
You get scared,
Then you scream,
Aint that bout a dream.

Heres a question I would for you to answer,
How does life seem?
Then say 'aint that bout a dream.'

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Life Is Like A Pathway

Life is like a pathway,
as you walk down the road
of life,
you will see many sorrows,
and many joys will come.

Life will pass swiftly by,
youth will someday seem
as nothing but a dream.

Life as days go by,
down this road you journey
will be just a memory in your mind.

Life is like a pathway
as you walk down the road
of life.

Your now at journey's end
looking back you wonder
and ponder of chances
you had.

Unless they have covered you
with dirt, there's still hope
to fulfill your dreams
down this pathway of life.

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Life is like Music

Life plays us like music
she plays it right
we sing it a nice lyric
she plays its wrong
we sing a sad song
some goes to the top
some never stop, getting dropped
BUT LIFE IS LIKE MUSIC
hip hop, rock, pop and reggae
we put it together
we get a song on a Sunday
BUT LIFE IS LIKE MUSIC
many plays it so nice
you know they making charts
better be-careful people
before it drives you nuts
some pop till they dropp
they never get back up
next thing you know
they selling rocks
to climb back to the top
BUT LIFE IS LIKE MUSIC
so if you know got a nice tone
sing it and never look back
cause life gives you one sheet
make music and make everyone clap.

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I Can No Longer Live For you

I spent my life loving you-
not someone like you, but YOU;
not a part of you, but YOU.
I spent my life knowing you,
hearing your heartbeat, painting your smile;
memorizing your thoughts, reading your eyes.
You thought that if you wear a mask,
I wouldn't know at all.
But then I do, coz all my life
I did nothing but living for you.
It's not your face that matters at all,
I can always see your soul.
You might not tell me if youre there
but I can feel your shadows.
It's not your voice that matters at all,
I can always hear your heart.
I can recognize your footsteps,
I can read what's on your mind.
You know that I would sense the truth,
you know that i would feel it.
You didnt tell me- were you afraid?
You twisted all you said.
I loved you and I love you-
I can always forgive you...
I can always understand you.
I waited to hear the truth from you
but why the silence?
Maybe because you dont love me
enough to tell me;
you dont love me enough
to win me back...
you dont love me enough
to care what I feel.
You just dont love me and Im sorry
I can no longer live for you.
I cant forever live for you.
Many times i hoped that i could touch forever
and beg him then to stay.
But then he didnt-
Yet, I wont live forever just to feel your love.
Im sorry, I cant do it-
I can no longer live for you...
but die for you, I will.

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Wish You Could See Me

I wish you could see me crying like a baby
Grieving not believing he's on a machine keeping him breathing
He aint leaving hell naw he's staying right here
Hoping I'm dreaming caught up in a nightmare
Emergency technicians cut him out his clothes
So they could see tha bullet holes put tubes up his nose
I suppose I'm suppose to be strong but damn that
My boy was supposed ta live longer
I'm remminesn bout drinking brews and smoking blunts
Prayed for the first time in months
God I know you cannot allow this madness to go on for so long
But I think you proved you point were going to live right for now on
His momma helped to tell me his fight was incredible
But it's inevitable if he makes it he'd be a vegetable
Raised nurtured him too much love
Too sit and watch him hurt so him pulling tha plug
I walked in seen him laying there
Looked like he was sleeping lights was blinking machines wasn't beeping
It was just me my homie had flat lined
so I hugged him told him I loved him For tha last time

[Chorus]
I wish you could see me
I wish you could see me
Wish you could see me
I wish you could see me

Cruel intentions complicating doom
Pulling for my partner in tha operating room
Sewed him up put him in I.C.U.
The doctor told his family thieve done all they can do
We had high hopes just knowing he'd pull through
But he got this look on his face like he just knew
He might not be able to come back
I said squeeze my hand if you feel me he didn't react
So that's one more homie that we lost to the late night
[Rain Starting]
Kill tha head light pull up at tha grave sight
We were there twenty minutes seemed like forever it lasted
His brother broke down his moms collapsed on tha casket
See tha caretaker throw the first shovel of dirt
I cant begin to describe how much that hurt
I can begin to describe I aint going pretend
I can't begin to describe that

[Chorus]

In this game I don't lost some money but I can make my N's back
I done lost some homies but ill never get my friends back
Thick and thin we thought it wouldn't end
But we were wrong son life does not go on
Alone he died

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You Can't Take It With You Rob

Rob preferred to be left all on his own
to live his life in his house all alone.
Seeking only to accumulate wealth
even when detrimental to his health.

Eking out a piece of string by the inch
and tear off bits of paper at a pinch.
Bought out of date food because it's cheaper
kept his accounts just like a book-keeper.

'You can't take it all with you, Rob', I said
'Why don't you give it all away instead? '
A philosophy he found so unsound
yet between us a great friendship was found.

But mammon is a hard task master at its best
and took its toll upon him giving him no rest.
God has called him to give account of all he'd done
and his estates' distributed and all has now gone.

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May Bring You

Remember to sing at the top of your lungs
The angels will hear you voice and summon your soul back to heaven
The angels cry as the body dies aimlessly and shamelessly in a desolate world
Treasure each wakened moment for you have been given the gift of life

Give thanks for today you rise with the morning sun.
May the sun kiss your beautiful smile
May your rosy cheeks glisten for every day you draw breath is seen as good day
You have been blessed with life so live it

May joy enter into your world each and everyday
May you overcome all obstacles in your way
May you always look at the bright side for it always can be worst
Life is like a party where you can choose to sit it out or dance

Remember a wise man once said that yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift
That is why we call it the present
Live today for tomorrow is always one day away

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You Can Stir Up Much Havoc

There are things I don't know.
Will you hold me to demands...
I make you understand,
That which I don't know.

There are things you don't know.
And I have no expectations grand...
You will suddenly take command,
To show you do know.

You've come to complicate my life.
And I don't like it.
One bit.

You can stir up much havoc.
Like a habit.
To fit..
Underneath any sentiment.

There are things I don't know.
Will you hold me to demands...
I make you understand,
That which I don't know.
And I don't know,
What you think I should know.

You've come to complicate my life.
And I don't like it.
One bit.

You can stir up much havoc.
Like a habit.
To fit..
Underneath any sentiment,
In me!
You can stir up much havoc.
Like a habit.
To fit..
Underneath any sentiment,
In me!

You've come to complicate my life.
And I don't like it.
One bit.
And this is it.
I think we should admit.
Quit and leave.

You can stir up much havoc.
Like a habit.
I think we should admit.
Quit it and leave.

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Doors You Can't See

The strangest things about these doors.
When they're shut.
You can't say one thing more.
They're always carried around by those ones
That have seen lots of abuse?
For which... there really was no excuse.

Yet, when you love or care or are married
To one of those... that were forced to live there!
It's hard to prove.. that you really care....
Because when they perceive... or think something is not just right.
They back up,
Slamming those doors(bang) in your face, tight!

Or when you see that blank face.
Here comes the door's.
And all you can do is stand there.. stare...
At the crying... helplessly... and more...
Waching... unable to do anything
As tears fall on the floor...

I know it's perceived... the doors that you cannot see....
The doors shutting and slamming... in your face....
But... so is the battle with time...
With you winning that race...
Or that old statement....
How they had egg on their face....

You can't actually see it....
Yet...just like that door
It's.....really.. there..................

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But Myself

I might not do any better
But I wont do any worst
I will never die without love
But I will die because of thirst
I will never stop looking for answers
And that road I will always search
I know that I will never be last
And before many I have been first.
I will never be a rich man
And I swear to you I will never be poor
I will never start a fight with any man
But I am not afraid to enter into a war
I will never ask for sympathy or money
But also on no one will I shut my door
I might date many different women
But I will never make woman a whore.
I might one day might have nothing
But then I will always have my pride
I will always rather joke and laugh
Never will I cause anyone to cry
I am not afraid to ever walk alone
Or I don’t care who walks at my side
I might tell many different stories
But no story I tell will ever be a lie.
I will never asked for handouts
As what I have I have earned
I might not be the smartest man around
But from life many lessons I have learned
I might not worry about our world today
But of peoples life I am concerned
I might not go to church as I should
But I know that I will never burn.
I do not care to walk alone
And I don’t care to be with anyone else
I don’t care if you have no money at all
And I don’t care to hear of your wealth
I might not be there when no one is near
But I will be there if you need my help
I am not afraid or ashamed to look in any mirror
As always I will be no-one, but myself

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If You can Keep your Cheese - after Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your cheese while few about you
are holding onto theirs', all envy ease.
If none can get your goat nor cow could doubt you
your scent which, heaven sent, can tell true bries
from gorgonzola, parmesan without you
planning for house mouse contingencies,
or short supply where larder rats may scout to
grind, compromise the tasty rind most please.

If by a whisker cheshire follows trout to
provide fit end for sweet delicacies,
or cheddar meat meal follows leaves no gout to
blur enjoyment, taste buds' harmonies.
If desert heat no threat presents, no pout too
in winter's cold where lizard's blood would freeze,
If neither flood nor drought can mar, throughout you
may triumph over blue mould colonies.

If all kowtow, if none would ever flout you
remembering to bow before ‘big cheese'...
if hole in one you score in club you clout to
take golden trophy - competition flees.
If all above's accomplished taste devout, true,
while others fail to prove their expertise,
your's is the world, which elsewhere's up the spout, few
can make their time your rhyme's real_I_tease!

IF - A Writers' Guild Gild Guile Guide
If you can form and not make norms your master,
conformity, performance formal, flame.
If you inform, share, [fl]airing, flow far faster,
yet let not copyright bind tight to shame.
If you treat critic's inconstructive blaster
with humour, beat him at his game's lame claim,
take not to hea[r]t his tumour, bandage, plaster
half-heartedly, pretend [s]he never came.

If you can couple energy creative
well in advance of others in your field,
without confusing nominative, dative,
rei[g]n arguments through cogency revealed
in context, in a manner innovative,
code palimpsests from all but s[t]age concealed,
If trust in self is never compensative
reaction used when you refused to yield.

If you can link great ends with small beginnings,
and yet not brag, nor tag each copy sold,
If dialogue's more vital than piled winnings,
to trim the quill where will won't be short-sold,
If, ignorance ignored, your story's spinnings
creates a pot no Potter has outsold,
yet you can fi[e]nd the flaw, to fresh beginnings
return to steer towards horizons bold.

If you can write without cash motivation,
self-righteousness avoiding like the plague,
create consensus round an innovation
embraced by all without appearing vague,
If you can span from logic to emotion
set constant course from vested interests clear,
If you can ban all untoward commotion,
while conscience clings to all that it holds dear,

If you can set the good within you flowing
without the itch to pitch beyond kitsch brink,
If you can give the nod and wink while knowing
that mental states aren't always in the pink,
If you use inner kinks to keep on growing
without denying others' right to think,
If you continue for tomorrow sowing
refusing using methods now that stink.

If you can lead lead soldiers Caxton crafted
without kowtow before cold compromise,
If neither editor nor public shafted
the output that your inner soul supplies,
If you can improvise, provide redrafted
communication keyed to catalyze,
you'll find to your surprise that you have rafted
alone on conscious stream your just dream buys.

Writers' Real Mirror Reflection Reel
With inside out, and out, surprised, inside,
When penning verse whose end may, too, begin it,
When rhyming reel with real can coincide
Your's is the world and everything that's in it.
If you can write without cash motivation,
Self-righteousness avoiding like the plague,
Create consensus round an innovation
Embraced by all without appearing vague.
If you can scan, span logic to emotion
Set constant course from vested interests clear,
If you can ban all untoward commotion,
While conscience clings to all that it holds dear,
If rhymes may improvise, spurn prose redrafted,
Communication key to catalyze,
You'll find to your surprise that you have rafted
On stream it seems when wit reverse dream tries.

On stream it seems when wit reverse dream tries
You'll find to your surprise that you have rafted
Communication key to catalyze.
If rhyme may improvise, spurn prose redrafted
While conscience clings to all that it holds dear,
If you can ban all untoward commotion,
Set constant course from vested interests clear.
If you can scan span logic to emotion
Embraced by all without appearing vague,
Create consensus round an innovation,
Self-righteousness avoiding like the plague,
If you can write without cash motivation,
Your's is the world and everything that's in it
When rhyming reel with real can coincide
When penning verse whose end may, too, begin it,
With inside out, and out, surprised, inside!

Cropped Apologies to Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your crops when all the nation
rails, vain assailing creepy crawly bugs,
If you can thrive when most lives' reputation
is knocked for skittles, stumped by snails and slugs,
If you can sow, show though you stay surrounded
by failing harvests sere upon the stem,
where hopes unfounded, speculations grounded,
face farmers who through jealousy condemn.

If greenhouse gases can't delay your planting,
with fallow Brussels' edicts all ignored,
If CO² you compensate by chanting
an incantation to the heavens poured.
If snail trails slip upon your sensor networks,
if nano tech protects your fields' high yield
which on the Futures markets harvests net perks
that from the tax collector stay concealed.

If you can fight Monsanto's sterile sowing,
deny blight warnings, nor fear climate change,
if cash in hand exceeds debts most's greed's owing,
if you're the early bird with worms in range,
If you free farm through seasons, thank your maker
from man's pollution, safe solution find,
yours is the race, you, ace, may need pacemaker
for luck can turn, earn bridges burned behind.

Advice to an Applicant
If you can back your boss and keep on smiling,
while toning down his brash absurdities,
if, having watched the man manhandle filing,
you rearrange the folders pretty please,
if coy and charming, beautiful, beguiling,
anticipating all contingencies,
you manage new accounts, contacts redialling,
correct crass spelling, cover vagaries...

If you can keep your head while he's resiling,
evolve successful counter-strategies,
if ‘mum's the word', discrete, ignoring tyling,
from busy-bodies safe when he agrees.
If you can spend your time in reconciling
his intellectual inanities,
never upset his fragile ego, heiling
whene'er he feels the need, or profits sneeze...

If Windows easy comes, while modem dialing
to DSL migration's not a tease,
if firewall free from viruses hostiling
you clean can keep, recalling password keys,
if the above you show him recompiling
the data lost when he lacks expertise, -
yet know your place as cypher, never riling,
remembering to bow before ‘big cheese'...

If you can stand him publicly reviling
your good ideas, then claim them his with ease,
can watch while rival's ruin he's compiling
so coldly that a lizard's blood would freeze.
If when betrayed by his ambitious wiling
you triumph through innate abilities,
ignoring basic scheming, baser guiling,
you seize the precious point he never sees! ...

If you won't blush when, rash, he'll rush, exiling
your intuitions as freak fantasies,
but confidently while free-time he's whiling,
circumvent his incapacities.
Surpassing him in brains, tact, versatiling,
you never strive to swap your salaries,
but both feet on the ground, still patient, smiling,
can counteract his incoherencies...

If you are sure his image needs restyling,
select the suits that suit down to the tees,
if you are ever ready camomiling,
or sprinkling sugar, creaming, coffee, teas,
if you can trick his wayward infantiling
and censure not his immaturities,
ignore his clumsy tries at fond defling,
yet fondled, tactful, rise from off his knees...

If you take three degrees while reconciling
your private life to further Ph.D.'s,
if you can children bear without work piling
and keep them free from trouble and disease,
if you can spring his quick promotion - vile thing -
and play the game of happy families...
Your's is the job, the rest's cosmetic styling,
Oh prized princess and pride of... secret'ries!

A l'assistante de l'Indirection
Si tu peux supporter de voir tes dossiers
démolis sans souffler mot et puis reclasser,
si tu sais appuyer partout ton PDG
sans sceptique rester quant à ses qualités...

Si tu souris, beauté, sans être emmerdante,
si vive mais jamais surprise, impatiente,
le soutenant quand des contresens fous l'enchantent,
ses lubies supporter sans paroles tranchantes...

Si tu sais sans délais t'adapter au progrès,
les autres anticiper, sans jamais hésiter,
bien le préparer avec de bons conseils,
des envieux protéger ton patron hébété...

Très expérimentée, mais sans prendre de l'age,
compréhensive aider avec ses rattrapages
sans pourtant mériter accéder aux voyages
‘d'études' et aux congrès, - ces minables volages!

Si tu sais lui montrer se servir du clavier,
aux réseaux si primés vite se connecter,
de l'Internet cliquer sur l'intranet branché,
son PC débugger sans jamais se broncher...

Si sa peur du souris, du clic-clic, du mulot
tu peux sans interdits dépasser au boulot,
à ses flagrants délits trouver tout ce qu'il faut,
si tu ses buts poursuis en soufflant le bon mot...

Si tu sais compenser l'orthographe qu'il perd,
scanner, penser, noter, téléphoner, tout faire,
son planning programmer, sans être trop mémère,
le soutenir, si gaie, quand son coeur désespère...

Si tu peux accoucher à l'heure du dîner,
tes enfants élever tous en bonne santé,
ton patron remplacer - ronronnant au soleil -
sans pour autant rêver qu'on t'accorde sa paye.

Si tu sors d'H.E.C. sans prétendre à la gloire,
Sciences Po, c'est fait, sans en faire une histoire,
ou Enarque tu es, faisant dans ton pouvoir
le tout pour manier les re(i) nes du Pouvoir.

Lors mieux qu'homme d'affaires, ou chef de cabinet
mieux que tous ces experts si souvent égarés,
tu seras à tout faire une bonne rêvée,
mieux que mère, sacrée ASSISTANTE tu es!

If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on';

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
Rudyard Kipling 1865_1936


Biff! The same father to the same son, now grown up.

If you can keep your job when all about you
Are losing theirs (by cutting down of screw) :
If you can keep yourself - for, make no doubt you
Won't get allowance, just for you to blue.
If you can make a heap by all your winnings
Risked on outsiders backed at Kempton Park,
Don't think that you will always get your innings
And kiss your boss's daughter in the dark.

If you should risk promotion, aught should tempt ye,
Eyeing the safe when all the staff have gone,
And, jemmying it open, find it empty,
And hear the watchman growl to you, ‘Hold on! '
If you should fill the unforgiving ‘minutes'
With names of all the people you have ‘done, '
Yours is the gaol, and everything that's in ti,
And, what is more, you'll get six months, my son.
Rachel Ferguson Nymphs and Satires 1932

A London Sparrow's IF
If you c'n keep alive when li'l bleeders
Come arter t' wi' catapults an' stones;
If you c'n grow up unpertickler feeders,
An' live on rugidge, crumbs, an' ‘addock bones;
If you c'n nest up in the bloomin' gutters,
An' dodge the blinkin' tabby on the tiles;
Nip under wheels an' never git the flutters,
Wear brahn an' no bright-coloured fevver-styles;
If you ain't blown b'nippers (Cor, I'd skin ‘me!) :
Stop y'r shells nah, warm-like, under me;
Yous is the eggs an' everyfink ‘at's in ‘em -
An' when they ‘atch, yor be cock-sparrers, see?
J A LINDON

If You can Keep Your Man
If You can Keep Your Man when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
Avert a break-up when he starts to doubt you,
Without behaving like a tart or shrew;

If you can bake a cake or change a nappy,
Although you've got a good Redbrick degree,
And yet can say you're reasonably happy
When other graduate wives dropp in for tea;

If you can lose yourself in ‘To the Lighthouse',
Yet, changing books, seek first the Thriller shelf,
If you can laugh at Mrs. Mary Whitehouse,
But sometimes wince at Wednesday Plays yourself;

If you stand up for Women's Liberation,
Think sex equality long overdue,
Yet purr when men evince consideration
And in a bus or train stand up for you;

If you can be a protest march frequenter,
But sometimes think the marchers a bit queer,
Yet, spite of everything, stay left of centre,
Oh, well, who knows? You may be right, my dear.
Stanley Sharpless

If You Can Crush
If you can crush, when all your chums are cribbing,
The urge that beckons you to do the same;
Can keep your tongue from telling tales or fibbing,
And can, when others err, take all the blame.

If you can nurse a crush on dear Miss Withers,
Yet bully off with just one silent tear;
Be resolute when even Matron dithers,
And weld the House together with a cheer.

If you can foil the fiendish Russian spy-ring,
Who've ‘got a hold' upon the Head (the swine!)
And by example selfless and inspiring,
Can make those ghastly Juniors toe the line.

If you while staying virgo quite intacta,
Can scoff at those who label you a prude;
And, when you leave, can know you've never slacked or
(Except to Ma'moiselle) been flip or rude.

If you can scale such pinnacles of virtue
And earn your teachers' praises as ‘a brick',
The truth, dear girl, (I do so hate to hurt you) -
The simple truth, dear Daphne, is you're thick!
Martin Fagg

IF
If you can stand the Quest and all her antics
When all around you turn somersaults upon her deck;
And go aloft when no one has told you
And not fall down and break your blooming neck;

If you can work like Wild and also like Wuzzles
Spend a convivial night with some old bean,
And then come down and meet the Boss at breakfast
And never breathe a word of where you've been.

If you can fill the port and starboard bunkers
With fourteen tons of coal; and call it fun;
Yours is the ship and everything that's in it
And you're a marvel; not a man my son.
Ernest H Shackleton

(28 July 2007)

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While You Can

Life is short
so do what you can
while you can.

Play if you can
work if you can
fall in love if you can
laugh if you can
cry if you can
sing if you can
dance if you can
dream if you can
while you can.

Life is short
so do what you can
while you can.

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I Might-and I Might Not

I might forget ambition and the hunger for success.
I might forget the passion to escape from nothingness.
I might forget the curious dreams of ecstasy that haunt
My fancy day and night. I might forget them. But I can't.

If I could let the pen alone and leave the inkstand dry,
And forego perpetual effort to be climbing, climbing high,
And lay aside my mad designs to startle and enchant,
I might enjoy the sweet of common living. But I can't.

I might be just a Philistine, and eat, and drink, and sleep,
And drive a dusty motor and pile money in a heap,
And let the stream of life run through my brain and be forgot.
If I did, I might be happier. I might—and I might not.

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Show Tune #3

What a lovely matinee
intermission long enough
but it's snowing, now, the wind is blowing-
well, you get my drift,
Baby, can I give you a lift?

Your way and my way
go the same highway-
the cabbie knows a byway,
I don't, so do say, do say
Baby, I can give you a lift.

In the cab we'll gab
laugh and count the many ways
that life is like a Broadway play
you can bet I'll pay, I'm good for it,
Baby, can I give you a lift?

When you get home, bone-dry
you will invite me in
if you've a shred of decency
for a quick one, maybe, if,
Baby, I can give you a lift.

I'll say 'no, I've got to run-
oh well, ok, you win,
but, darling, have you any change'?
'Yes, I think so, hon'
and thanks so much for the lift'.

refrain

Cast off that umbrella
you don't need it anymore
just hop inside
Make me a happy fella!
funny how the weather
makes for such a pleasant ride
Hurry, the meter's running
Time is money, honey, ah,
it isn't even funny-nah
it isn't even funny.

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You Can't Get A Man With A Gun

Oh, my mother was frightened by a shotgun they say
That's why I'm such a wonderful shot
I'd be out in the cactus and I'd practice all day
And now tell me what have I got
I'm quick on the trigger
With targets not much bigger
Than a pinpoint - I'm number one
But my score with a feller
Is lower than a cellar
Oh, you can't get a man with a gun
When I'm with a pistol
I sparkle like a crystal
Yes, I shine like the morning sun
But I lose all my luster
When with a bronco buster
Oh, you can't get a man with a gun
With a gu-un
With a gu-un
No, you can't get a man with a gun
If I went to battle
With someone's herd of cattle
You'd have steak when the job was done
But if I shot the herder
They'd holler bloody murder
And you can't shoot a male
In the tail
Like a quail
Oh, you can't get a man with a gun
[2]
If I shot a rabbit
Some furrier would grab it
For a coat that would warm someone
But you can't shoot a lover
And use him for a cover
Oh, you can't get a man with a gun
The gals with umbrellers
Are always out with fellers
In the rain or the blazing sun
But a man never trifles
With gals who carry rifles
Oh, you can't get a man with a gun
With a gu-un
With a gu-un
No, you can't get a man with a gun
A Tom, Dick or Harry
Will build a house for Carrie
When the preacher has made them one
But he can't build you houses
With buckshot in his trousers
For a man may be hot
But he's not
When he's shot
Oh, you can't get a man with a gun

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Patrick White

Wired To Looking For Gardens of Eden

Wired to looking for Gardens of Eden at the wrong end of my dopamines.
Want to move back to the country
and live in a secluded place
you couldn't find unless I led you there.
Want to take pride again
in knowing all the names of the trees and stars and flowers
as if they all lived in the same small community
of intimate immensities that I do
like pebbles on the edge of an avalanche.
Tired of playing Russian roulette with the asteroids.
Want to live somewhere even the animals know
the plants know more about healing than they do.
And it would be great
to have a woman who knows how
to think and feel and make love there with me
to laugh at what a brilliant idiot I am
to know how to make soap out of the sap of flowers
that smell like their names.
Bouncing Bet.
Pride of London.
Lady at the Gate.
I'm not looking for purple noons and honeybees.
I'm not trying to make a big splash like Basho's frog in Walden Pond.
Just want to lie down in the tall yellow grass of a September hillside
and feel like a freshly baked loaf of bread
cooling on a windowsill
like a philosopher's stone
as the sun goes down over the hill
and the dust of many roads
gets in the eyes of my starmaps
like gusts of stars
that makes them water with the wonder
of being here at all to know how lost and homeless I am
even in the depths of the dark womb that first imagined me like water.
I cling like a tree to my lucidities
and I'm rooted in the light
as much as I am the dirt
and I sprout poems and paintings like flowers and leaves
and even when I've been struck by lightning
the dead branch blooms like the moon
and you can hear the drums of silver apples
marshalling at my feet
like a troupe of white-winged horses.
Like the pulse of the windfall
when death first entered the garden
to let me know how alive I am
in this present moment
that has no death or birth in it
no beginnings
no ends
and goes on forever
as the only feature of time
that doesn't need a calendar.
But I'm not waxing Biblical about the brevity of days
and I've always been grateful
that I was born too stupid to be a cynic
and looking up at the stars from anywhere
one of the greatest wonders of life to me
is that so few people are amazed.
They've never listened with their eyes to the night
so that when their eyes speak
they don't understand
the mother language of the light
and the fireflies forget how to talk to the stars
and everybody's looking for an interpreter
to tell them the meaning of things.
They don't know how to enjoy
being alone
with everything they don't understand.
That's why I like New England asters and purple loosestrife.
That's why I like being kept at home by snowbound roads
and unanswerable fires.
I want to sit at a carved picnic table
under a locust tree in the morning
when it's in full bloom
and humming with thousands of bees
and wonder aloud in a poem that's writing me why
whenever you find nectar
there's always thorns
as if my life depended upon it.
I want to approach my material confinement
with the suppleness of water
given that's what I mostly am
and have no fear of spiritual evaporation
after I'm dead
and gone beyond into
the transformative darkness of my original watershed
because I've seen the same thing happening to the shapeshifting stars
that everyone says are fixed.
I am not deceived by appearances
into believing there's any kind of reality behind them
as if a mirage were lying to a desert.
Water's no less of a window
when it reflects the moon on its surface
than it is in the depths of the sea
that grows it like a pearl.
If you can only see with the eye
and not through it
as Blake suggested
then you're inundated with visuals
as impersonal as the camera lens
that follows you through the city
like an upgraded form of state shadow.
But out in the country where no one's watching
but the occasional squirrel
once you let the light in
your seeing isn't just
a phenomenological reaction
to photonic randomness
but a creative response to chaos
that makes images out of visuals
and symbols out of visions
and facts out of purposeless experience
like tiny mouse skulls
and abandoned herons' nests
that don't make a liar
out of your imagination.
I want to live somewhere in peace
without thinking I'm selfish or a coward
to observe the world around me
as if it were the expression
of the beautiful absurdity
of this reclusive artistic discipline
that keeps making me up as it goes along
to fill in the lyrics
of a half-forgotten song
it's singing to itself like water.
I'm tired of the gibbering of the sacred monkeys
who don't know what's holy about life
unless it's washed in blood.
I'm tired of the intrusion of the good and bad
into my solitude
as if the mob
and the government
civilization
culture and education
had a right to homogenize
the taste of life in my mouth.
Not the same.
Not different.
Not exclusive.
Not effacing.
I'm sick of gaming the rackets of life
for my daily bread.
Sick of the maggots
laying claim to the pedigree of butterflies.
Sick of the tapeworms
trying to convince me they're spinal cords
and shoelaces
or downed powerlines that are the envy of cobras.
Sick of never underestimating
the violence and ignorance of humans
without always being right.
Are there ants that go to sleep hungry tonight?
Are there bees in the hive without honey?
Just want to walk out late at night up to a high field
with a broken gate
by myself
or with someone else
that hasn't been closed in years
and delight in going creatively mad under the stars
exalting in the radiance of human eyes
in an exchange of lucidities
that proves we are not strangers to the light
here on earth
or in any other place
where we greet each other like guests without a host
wondering why we are gathered here to ask.
My heart is torn under its own weight
and all my dreamcatchers
have turned into unsustainable spiderwebs
by accumulation.
My soul is the swan of the full moon
unfeathered on dark waters
by a snapping turtle
that keeps rising from its depths like the world.
I've walked so long down this long road on crutches and stilts
it's forgotten the feel of my feet
and all the mystic auroras of my spirit
robe me in meat
and chameleonic anxiety.
Sick of technological progress
that is the equal and opposite reaction
to the devolution
of what's beyond comprehension
into the truth
into wisdom
into knowledge
into facts
into data
into lies
that upstage the myths of the stars
with mutative alibis.
Want to go somewhere I can scream
and the hills will understand the echo.
Want to go somewhere I can look at the spring columbine
growing out of the green moss toupee
on the lichen-covered rock
and not see it covered in the blood of children.
Want to walk out into the darkness
even on a starless night
and feel like a vulnerable mortal
made wary by the innocence of natural dangers
and not the deranged perversities
of ghouls off their meds in the cities.
Want to get away from the maggots and tapeworms
that govern the body politic within and without
like the corrupt flesh of a dead horse
that died of exhaustion
pulling the milkwagon uphill.
Don't want to walk any more roads that turn into quicksand.
Just want to kick my cornerstones like pebbles
down a dusty lane
as if I had all the time in the world
not to explain to anyone
why it seems so crucial
to get the colours of the New England asters right.
And I know it's a dream.
I know it's an illusion.
A mirage of the way I feel.
But sometimes even water
is wounded by this desert
where the only roads are snakes
that make paths in the sand and the stars
and it takes a mirage to heal.
Sometimes it's better
to let yourself be deceived by appearances
to be relieved by the compassion
inherent in the way things seem to the mind
like a cool herb on a severe burn
than go blind.

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You might not be able to stomach it, but as long as you can mind it, your heart will be all right.

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Dark Death

Everyone goes through dark death
It's painful, cruel, and somehow blue
Everyone suffers until last breath
Somewhere the will find a clue

Death is something you can't escape
Sooner or later you'll have to face it
Death is scary and dark like a black cape
You can't see it coming, it'll just hit

Dark death is sometimes sweet
people like it because it takes away he misery
People shoot, hit, and beat
They'll rot away like celery

Dark death is sometimes cool
but it's mostly always cruel

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