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The Possession of Hannah Grace [Not Alone]

Cast: Shay Mitchell

clip from The Possession of Hannah Grace, directed by Diederik Van Rooijen, screenplay by Brian Sieve (2018)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Twenty Hoss-Power Shay

You have heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day.
And then, of a sudden, it up and bust,
And all that was left was a mound of dust?
Holmes -- O. W. -- told it well
In a rhyme of his -- what there was to tell --
But the one-hoss shay wasn't "one, two, three"
With a vehicle once belonged to me.

One hoss? No, sir! Not six nor nine --
Twenty there were in this rig of mine!
Twenty hosses as tough as rocks,
All caged up in a sort of box
That stood jist back of the forward wheels!
Right! She was one of those automobiles
With twenty hosses bottled inside -
Hosses that not only pull but ride!
Wonder what Holmes would have had to say
If the mare had rode in his one-hoss shay!
I reckon the shay would have logicked out
Before the century rolled about.

Well, this big touring car, I say,
Was built just like the one-hoss shay --
Some dependable, logical way --
Flipflaps, dujabs, wheels and things,
Levers, thing-gum-bobs and springs,
Hub, and felloe, and hoss-power chest --
One part just as strong as the rest;
So "logic is logic," as Holmes would say,
And no one part could first give way.

Wonderful vehicle, you'll admit,
With not one flaw in the whole of it;
As long as I had it, I declare
I hadn't one cent to pay for repair,
It couldn't break down because, you see,
It was such a logical symphony.

Now for my tale. We're not so slow
These days as a hundred years ago,
And it's like enough that the one-hoss shay,
Ambling along in its sleepy way,
Should creep a century 'thout a break,
But nowadays we aim to make
A pace that is something like a pace,
And if that old shay got in our race
It would stand the pressure twenty days
And go to the home of played-out shays.

[...] Read more

poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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The Deacon's Masterpiece Or, The Wonderful "One-Hoss Shay": A Logical Story

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it -- ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits, --
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive, --
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot, --
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, -- lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will, --
Above or below, or within or without, --
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it could n' break daown:
"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke, --
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum," --
Last of its timber, -- they could n't sell 'em,

[...] Read more

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Their Innocents

shay is so beautiful
shay is so awesome
shay is so funny
shay is this shay is that
that is how him going on and on bout her starts
all I do is sit back smile and know
as his eyes float into the starry sky
his mind is wondering forty miles away
where her pretty head lays down to rest
wishing she was with him
only if he knew she was wishing he was with her
she wonders if he knows he is the only thing she thinks about
when she lays her head down to only dream of him

he lays and wonders if she knows
she is the only thing he thinks about
as he lays his head down
only to end up dreaming of her once again
only if they both knew that the desire
to be with each other
is just as great as the others

the longest talk
the sweetest dream
will never satisfy the hunger for each other
when there together her eyes tell him secrets
secrets that no one else knows
her body looks like an angel’s but with horns underneath her hallow

one touch of his hand
the sun melts underneath her skin
one smile or laugh makes his day

as I sit and watch
their eyes and bodies lite on fire
and the lake they stand on
start to boil with the passion they share between them
all I can do is smile and laugh
knowing that their innocents will come and go
but their love always be there
to stay forever

poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Sequel to the "One-Horse Shay"

Doubtless my readers all have heard
Of the "wonderful one-horse shay "
That "went to pieces all at once"
On the terrible earthquake-day.
But did they ever think of the horse,
Or mourn the loss of him,—
The "ewe-necked bay" (who drew the "shay"),
So full of life and vim?
He was a wonderful nag, I'm told,
In spite of his old "rat-tail";
And, though he always minded the rein,
He laughed at the snow and hail.
He had the finest stable in town,
With plenty of oats and hay;
And to the parson's oft "Hud-dup"
He never would answer neigh.
To the parson's shay he was ever true,
Though her other felloes were tired:
To live and die with his fiancée
Was all that his heart desired.
He was much attached to his ancient mate;
So the parson "hitched them together;"
And, when they went on their bridle tour,
His heart was light as a feather.
We all remember her awful fate,
On that sad November day,
When nothing remained but a heap of trash,
That once was a beautiful shay.
Oh! what could stir-up the equine breast
Like this fearful, harrowing blow.
Which put a check on his happiness,
And filled his heart with w(h)oa.
As he wheeled about, a shaft of pain
Entered his faithful breast,
As he there beheld the sad remains
Of her whom he loved the best.
With a sudden bound and fearful snort,
He sped away like the wind;
And a fact most queer I'll mention here, —
No traces were left behind.

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Hot Rocks Polka

If I could stick my hand in my heart
Spill it all over the stage
Would it satisfy you
Would it slide on by you
Would you think the boy is strange
Aint it stra-a-ange
If I could win
If I could sing
A love song so divine
Would it be enough for your cheating heart
If I broke down and cried
If I cri-i-ied
I said, ah no, its only rock n roll
But I like it
Ah no, its only rock n roll
But I like it, like it
Yes I do
I really really really really do do-do do do
Hey
Gold coast slave ship bound for cotton fields
Sold in a market down in new orleans
Scarred old slaver knows hes doin all right
Hear they whip the women just around midnight
Brown sugar
How come you taste so good
Brown sugar
Just like a young girl should
I saw her today at the reception
A glass of wine in her hand
I knew she would make her connection
By her feet was a footloose man
You cant always get what you want
You cant always get what you want
You cant always get what you want
But if you try sometimes
You might find
You get what you need
You need honkey tonk women
Gimme gimme gimme the honkey tonk blues
Under my thumb
The girl who once had me down
Under my thumb
The girl who once pushed me around
Its down to me
Yes it is
The way she talks when shes spoken to
Down to me
The change has come
Shes under my thumb
So, goodbye ruby tuesday

[...] Read more

song performed by Weird Al Yankovic
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hot Digitty Dog

Hot digitty dog! Now, ain't it queer,
I've been abroad for over a year;
Seen a helluva lot since then,
Killed, I reckon, a dozen men;
Six was doubtful, but six was sure,
Three in Normandy, three in the Ruhr.
Four I got with a hand grenade,
Two I shot in a midnight raid:
Oh, I ain't sorry, except perhaps
To think that my jerries wasn't japs.

Hot digitty dog! Now ain't it tough;
I oughta be handed hero stuff -
Bands and banquets, and flags and flowers,
Speeches, peaches, confetti showers;
"Welcome back to the old home town,
Colour Sargent Josephus Brown.
Fought like a tiger, one of our best,
Medals and ribands on his chest.
cheers for a warrior, fresh from the fight . . ."
Sure I'd 'a got 'em - - had I been white.

Hot digitty dog! It's jist too bad,
Gittin' home an' nobody gald;
Sneakin' into the Owl Drug Store
Nobody knowin' me any more;
Admirin' my uniform fine and fit -
Say, I've certainly changed a bit
From the lanky lad who used to croon
To a battered banjo in Shay's Saloon;
From the no-good nigger who runned away
After stickin' his knife into ol' man Shay.

They's a lynched me, for he was white,
But he raped my sister one Sunday night;
So I did what a proper man should do,
And I sunk his body deep in the slough.
Oh, he taunted me to my dark disgrace,
Called me a nigger, spat in my face;
So I buried my jack-knife in his heart,
Laughin' to see the hot blood start;
Laughin' still, though it's long ago,
And nobody's ever a-gonna know.

Nobody's ever a-gonna tell
How Ol' Man Shay went straight to hell;
nobody's gonna make me confess -
And what is a killin' more or less.
My skin may be black, but by Christ! I fight;
I've slain a dozen, and each was white,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert William Service
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Mitchell Wilson's Gone Today

Nobody heard the pleas of his cries
Especially the once that led him to die
Nobody bothered to keep him in safe
Eroding his faith that there'd be better days

Predisposed by flawed biology
Exposed the rules of constant lambasting
Laughter became his constant torture
The mark of which left him to be colder

When he was 6 he played with kids
But they saw, his Achilles heel
So they built a pyre on his smile
Throwing the coals of a lifetime of trials

Mitchell Wilsons gone today
He left his ghost in the hour's remains
In Photographs and Video footage
Where he's at peace as a pixel memento

Every day was his battleground
And everyone told him to keep his chin up
But they never heard the screams in his mind
Telling him constantly that nothing was right

And one day he took a chance walking on the street
But an iniquitous child gave him a good solid beat
Flattening his teeth and blacken his cheaks
Applying the straw that broke his daggers mind

And so little Mitchell is gone today
He knew the game that special kids do
That to be a child is to be a soldier
Constantly in battle with the social orders
Forming alliance form on the chalky jungle gyms
Where secret expressions keep everyone lipped
And Parents see angels through masquerading devils
Who grow up to think their children will be better
But were just drinking circles eating the ends of snakes tails
And were winning to succeed at everything that always fail

Mitchell Wilsons gone today
He left grade school to build a grave
And find the refuge in the dying light
To live at peace under a secret sun

[...] Read more

poem by Kevin Patrick
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Frankly, My Dear

Scarlett O’ and Melanie,
presenting the dichotomies
of feminine near-felony
and law, would need lobotomies
to reconcile. If, frankly, dear,
you give a damn, you must decide
to which of them your heart is near,
allowing it to be your guide,
for if you choose them both the wind
will see that you are gone. Life ain’t
like Hollywood. If you have sinned,
don’t try to make out with a saint,
because there always is a clash
when opposites attempt to meet,
and if they do they tend to crash,
since those who cannot change must cheat.

Inspired by Michiko Kakutani’s review of Molly Haskell’s “‘Frankly My Dear: Gone With the Wind’ Revisited” (“Frankly My Dear: ” NYT, April 24,2009) :
Just as the dichotomy between Scarlett and Melanie, Rhett and Ashley gave the movie a classic bipolar architecture, so Cukor and Fleming became, in Ms. Haskell’s words, the movie’s stylistic “yin and yang”: Cukor providing “the delicate gradations of feeling between lovers and family” while Fleming supplied the movie’s “bold, sweeping movement through time and history.” At the same time, Ms. Haskell observes, the art director William Cameron Menzies endowed the sprawling opus with a visual coherence: “The expressionistic landscapes and character positionings designed by Menzies and his staff keep certain images as touchstones, in the forefront of consciousness — like the horse collapsing on the bridge, the fire in the background, the use of the new moon, ” even as his masterful use of the new process of Technicolor worked to heighten the drama of the story. In the end the real reason this movie with too many cooks miraculously worked, Ms. Haskell says, was “the fire and desperation of three people with strangely overlapping tastes and eccentricities”: “In ‘Gone With the Wind, ’ Mitchell’s only book, every crisis and trauma of her life is transmuted into narrative; Selznick seized the reins and threw himself into the making of the movie like a man possessed; and Leigh, whose casting was less accidental than legend has it, invested Scarlett with something beyond beauty, something altogether uncanny — a demonic energy, a feverishness that would later tip over into illness and pathology.” All three of these people, Ms. Haskell argues, were “possessed of fire-and-ice opposites that they projected into their lives and careers”: “Leigh, the mesmerizing mixture of bawdy sexpot and exquisite doll, echoed the Scarlett-Melanie sides of Margaret Mitchell, flapper turned matron. Mitchell, in turn, was attracted in fiction and in life to male opposites: the blackguard and the saint (she created one of each; she married one of each) .” As for Selznick, Ms. Haskell says, he liked to cast his protégées as “wide-eyed innocents” or “palpitating sexpots, ” who in turn were attracted “to good boy-bad boy opposites.” “The intensely personal energy of this dividedness, the deep-down tension in Mitchell, Selznick and Leigh between vulgarity and refinement, ” she concludes, “is what gives the archetypes in ‘Gone With the Wind’ their extraordinary human resonance, ” and thanks to the way the three of them threw themselves into the project, “that historical ‘costume’ story” never feels remotely past.

4/24/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Scarlett And Melanie

Scarlett O’ and Melanie,
presenting the dichotomies
of feminine near-felony
and law, would need lobotomies
to reconcile. If, frankly, dear,
you give a damn, you must decide
to which of them your heart is near,
allowing it to be your guide,
for if you choose them both the wind
will see that you are gone. Life ain’t
like Hollywood. If you have sinned,
don’t try to make out with a saint,
because there always is a clash
when opposites attempt to meet,
and if they do they tend to crash,
since those who cannot change must cheat.

Inspired by Michiko Kakutani’s review of Molly Haskell’s “‘Frankly My Dear: Gone With the Wind’ Revisited” (“Frankly My Dear: ” NYT, April 24,2009) :
Just as the dichotomy between Scarlett and Melanie, Rhett and Ashley gave the movie a classic bipolar architecture, so Cukor and Fleming became, in Ms. Haskell’s words, the movie’s stylistic “yin and yang”: Cukor providing “the delicate gradations of feeling between lovers and family” while Fleming supplied the movie’s “bold, sweeping movement through time and history.” At the same time, Ms. Haskell observes, the art director William Cameron Menzies endowed the sprawling opus with a visual coherence: “The expressionistic landscapes and character positionings designed by Menzies and his staff keep certain images as touchstones, in the forefront of consciousness — like the horse collapsing on the bridge, the fire in the background, the use of the new moon, ” even as his masterful use of the new process of Technicolor worked to heighten the drama of the story. In the end the real reason this movie with too many cooks miraculously worked, Ms. Haskell says, was “the fire and desperation of three people with strangely overlapping tastes and eccentricities”: “In ‘Gone With the Wind, ’ Mitchell’s only book, every crisis and trauma of her life is transmuted into narrative; Selznick seized the reins and threw himself into the making of the movie like a man possessed; and Leigh, whose casting was less accidental than legend has it, invested Scarlett with something beyond beauty, something altogether uncanny — a demonic energy, a feverishness that would later tip over into illness and pathology.” All three of these people, Ms. Haskell argues, were “possessed of fire-and-ice opposites that they projected into their lives and careers”: “Leigh, the mesmerizing mixture of bawdy sexpot and exquisite doll, echoed the Scarlett-Melanie sides of Margaret Mitchell, flapper turned matron. Mitchell, in turn, was attracted in fiction and in life to male opposites: the blackguard and the saint (she created one of each; she married one of each) .” As for Selznick, Ms. Haskell says, he liked to cast his protégées as “wide-eyed innocents” or “palpitating sexpots, ” who in turn were attracted “to good boy-bad boy opposites.” “The intensely personal energy of this dividedness, the deep-down tension in Mitchell, Selznick and Leigh between vulgarity and refinement, ” she concludes, “is what gives the archetypes in ‘Gone With the Wind’ their extraordinary human resonance, ” and thanks to the way the three of them threw themselves into the project, “that historical ‘costume’ story” never feels remotely past.

4/24/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Got 'Til It's Gone (Armand Van Helden Bonus Beats)

Now why you wanna go and do that love, huh
Now why you wanna go and do that huh do that
Now why you wanna go and do that love, huh
Now why you wanna go and do that, do that, do that
I like this song huh,
What
Uh like Joni says
Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what
you've got til it's... (gone)
Repeat 3x
You don't know what you've got til it's gone
Have a feelin'
Now believin'
That you were the one I was meant to be with
Oh how I'm wishin', thinkin' dreamin', 'bout you, and the love
How'd I ever let you get away
Got til it's gone
Got til it's gone
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know
what you've got til it's ...(gone)
Repeat 3x
What
Joni Mitchell never lies (lies, lies)
You never know what you've got til it's gone
I could turn the hands of time (mmm)
Make you fall in love with me again
So would you give me another chance to love
To love you the right way
No games
Got 'til it's gone
Got 'til it's gone
Joni Mitchell never lies
Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know
what you've got til it's... (gone)
Repeat 3x
Whats that
Yeah
Let me just **** with it for a minute
What (that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone)
Now you are realizing when the nights go long, right
Campaign for me to stay
When you know that I'm gone, right
You act all wild
When I tell you to settle
I was working 'round the clock
But you girls want to meddle (I heard, I heard)
Talkin' about, I heard he swims with his chick on the beach
That was out with the tide but my love you impeached
Now you lookin' at the walls

[...] Read more

song performed by Janet Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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Got Till It's Gone (feat. Q-Tip & Joni Mitchell)

Now why you wanna go and do dat love, huh
Now why you wanna go and do dat huh do that
Now why you wanna go and do dat love, huh
Now why you wanna go and do dat, do dat, do dat
I like this song huh,
What
On and on it seemed to go, that you don't know what you've got till it's gone
Repeat 3x
You don't know what you've got till it's gone
I've a feeling
Now believing
That you were the one I was meant to be with
Oh how I'm wishing, thinking dreaming, of you to love
That I was meant to be
That way
Got till it's gone (on and on)
Got till it's gone (on and on)
Yeah, yeah, yeah
On and on it seemed to go, that you don't know what you've got till it's gone
Repeat 3x
oh oh
What
Joni Mitchell never lies (lies, lies)
You never know what you've got till it's gone
I could turn back hands of time (mmm)
Make you fall in love with me again
So would you give me another chance to love
To love you the right way, come again
Got till it's gone (on and on)
Got till it's gone (on and on)
Joni Mitchell never lies
On and on it seemed to go, that you don't know what you've got till it's gone
Repeat 3x
What's that
Uh huh Yeah
Let me just wait'it for a minute (don't know what you've got till it's gone)
What
Now you realisin' when the nights go long
Right
Can't wait for to to say when you know that I'm wrong
Right
Get back for awhile
When I tell you to settle
I was working round the clock
But you girls' win the medal (I heard..I heard)
Talk about I heard you smith
But just check on the beat
That was out with the time
But my love you impeach
Now you're looking at the wall

[...] Read more

song performed by Janet Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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Peggy Mitchell

Your smile came so easily
as a rose unfolding under the sun
and almost carelessly were we
in a true happy state
falling for each other

and yet although pure with great dignity
love sprouted as a simple flower
coming to its own perfection
but the thorns that it carried
brought pain, mercilessly tormenting
in madness, glee and selfishly
and still as joy unending

and carelessly you wanted to be free,
just as easily you left me, senselessly
as stripped leaves wither,
to flower for another
to have his heart at your mercy.

[References: Peggy Mitchell by the Irish poet Rafferty, Peggy Mitchell by James Stephens, Sy by A.G. Visser, Peggy Mitchell by Eugene N. Marais, La belle dame sans merci by John Keats, Madonna (new version) , No Red Rose and La belle dame sans merci by Gert Strydom.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Got til Its Gone

Janet:
Whats... whats the next song?
Q-tip:
The one about me
Janet:
Oh yeah?
I like this song
Uh-uh like joni says...
Joni
Dont it always seem to go that you dont know what youve got til its--
Dont it always seem to go that you dont know what youve got til its--
Dont it always seem to go that you dont know what youve got til its--
You dont know what youve got til its--
Janet:
Gone
Have a feelin
Now believin
That you were the one
I was meant to be with
Oh how Im wishin
Thinkin dreamin
Bout you
And the love
Howd I ever let you get away?
Got til its gone
Joni:
Dont- dont- dont it always--,
Dont- dont- dont it always--
Janet:
Got til its gone
Joni:
Dont- dont- dont it always--
Q-tip:
Yeah, yeah, yeah...
Joni:
Dont it always seem to go that you dont know what youve got til its
Janet:
Gone
Joni:
Dont it always seem to go that you dont know what youve got til its
Janet:
Gone
Joni:
Dont it always seem to go that you dont know what youve got til its
Janet:
Gone
Q-tip:
Joni mitchell never lies
Joni:
You dont know what youve got til its

[...] Read more

song performed by Janet Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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An Old Master

We were cartin' lathes and palin's from the slopes of Mount St. Leonard,
With our axles near the road-bed and the mud as stiff as glue;
And our bullocks weren't precisely what you'd call conditioned nicely,
And meself and Messmate Mitchell had our doubts of gettin' through.

It had rained a tidy skyful in the week before we started,
But our tucker-bag depended on the sellin' of our load;
So we punched 'em on by inches, liftin' 'em across the pinches,
Till we struck the final section of the worst part of the road.

We were just congratulatin' one another on the goin',
When we blundered in a pot-hole right within the sight of goal,
Where the bush-track joins the metal. Mitchell, as he saw her settle,
Justified his reputation at the peril of his soul.

We were in a glue-pot, certain —- red and stiff and most tenacious;
Over naves and over axles —- waggon sittin' on the road.
''Struth,' says I, 'they'll never lift her. Take a shot from Hell to shift her.
Nothin' left us but unyoke 'em and sling off the blessed load.'

Now, beside our scene of trouble stood a little one-roomed humpy,
Home of an enfeebled party by the name of Dad McGee.
Daddy was, I pause to mention, livin' on an old-age pension
Since he gave up bullock-punchin' at the age of eighty-three.

Startled by our exclamations, Daddy hobbled from the shanty,
Gazin' where the stranded waggon looked like some half-foundered ship.
When the state o' things he spotted, 'Looks,' he says, 'like you was potted,'
And he toddles up to Mitchell. 'Here,' says he, 'gimme that whip.'

Well! I've heard of transformations; heard of fellers sort of changin'
In the face of sudden danger or some great emergency;
Heard the like in song and story and in bush traditions hoary,
But I nearly dropped me bundle as I looked at Dad McGee.

While we gazed he seemed to toughen; as his fingers gripped the handle
His old form grew straight and supple, and a light leapt in his eye;
And he stepped around the waggon, not with footsteps weak and laggin',
But with firm, determined bearin', as he flung the whip on high.

Now he swung the leaders over, while the whip-lash snarled and volleyed;
And they answered like one bullock, strainin' to each crack and clout;
But he kept his cursin' under till old Brindle made a blunder;
Then I thought all Hell had hit me, and the master opened out.

And the language! Oh, the language! Seemed to me I must be dreamin';
While the wondrous words and phrases only genius could produce
Roared and rumbled, fast and faster, in the throat of that Old Master —-
Oaths and curses tipped with lightning, cracklin' flames of fierce abuse.

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Last Review

Turn the light down, nurse, and leave me, while I hold my last review,
For
the Bush
is slipping from me, and the town is going too:
Draw the blinds, the streets are lighted, and I hear the tramp of feet—
And I’m weary, very weary, of the
Faces in the Street
.

In the dens of Grind and Heartbreak, in the streets of Never-Rest,
I have lost the scent and colour and the music of the West:
And I would recall old faces with the memories they bring—
Where are Bill and Jim and Mary and the
Songs They used to Sing
?

They are coming! They are coming! they are passing through the room
With the smell of gum leaves burning, and the scent of
Wattle bloom!

And behind them in the timber, after dust and heat and toil,
Others sit beside the camp fire yarning while the billies boil.

In the Gap above the ridges there’s a flash and there’s a glow—
Swiftly down the scrub-clad siding come the
Lights of Cobb and Co
.:
Red face from the box-seat beaming—Oh, how plain those faces come!
From his ‘Golden-Hole’ ’tis Peter M’Intosh who’s going home.

Dusty patch in desolation, bare slab walls and earthen floor,
And a blinding drought is blazing from horizons to the door:
Milkless tea and ration sugar, damper junk and pumpkin mash—
And a
Day on our Selection
passes by me in a flash.

Rush of big wild-eyed store bullocks while the sheep crawl hopelessly,
And the loaded wool teams rolling, lurching on like ships at sea:
With his whip across his shoulder (and the wind just now abeam),
There goes
Jimmy Nowlett
ploughing through the dust beside his team!

Sunrise on the diggings! (Oh! what life and hearts and hopes are here)
From a hundred pointing forges comes a tinkle, tinkle clear—
Strings of drays with wash to puddle, clack of countless windlass boles,
Here and there
the red flag flying
, flying over golden holes.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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I Am Feeling What A Feeling

This city of concrete and steel
Is full of material girls
They don't recognize genius
They throw away all the pearls

They take the fake gems
In God's holy names
I am feeling
What a feeling
What a feeling
I am feeling

Jay Jon Praymer Bhaab Janay Na
Taar Shathay Nai Layna Deyna
Khaati Shona Chhariya Jay Nayy Naucoal Shona
Shay Jon Shona Cheenay Na

They want to live a lavish life
They are not scared of war and strife
They are not scared of telling lie
They leave their minds with the poor guy

They take the wrong steps
They are like the apes
I am feeling
What a feeling
What a feeling
I am feeling

Jay Jon Praymer Bhaab Janay Na
Taar Shathay Nai Layna Deyna
Khaati Shona Chhariya Jay Nayy Naucoal Shona
Shay Jon Shona Cheenay Na

poem by Asif Andalib
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The bow-leg boy

Who should come up the road one day
But the doctor-man in his two-wheel shay!
And he whoaed his horse and he cried "Ahoy!
I have brought you folks a bow-leg boy!
Such a cute little boy!
Such a funny little boy!
Such a dear little bow-leg boy!"

He took out his box and he opened it wide,
And there was the bow-leg boy inside!
And when they saw that cunning little mite,
They cried in a chorus expressive of delight:
"What a cute little boy!
What a funny little boy!
What a dear little bow-leg boy!"

Observing a strict geometrical law,
They cut out his panties with a circular saw;
Which gave such a stress to his oval stride
That the people he met invariably cried:
"What a cute little boy!
What a funny little boy!
What a dear little bow-leg boy!"

They gave him a wheel and away he went
Speeding along to his heart's content;
And he sits so straight and he pedals so strong
That the folks all say as he bowls along:
"What a cute little boy!
What a funny little boy!
What a dear little bow-leg boy!"

With his eyes aflame and his cheeks aglow,
He laughs "aha" and he laughs "oho";
And the world is filled and thrilled with the joy
Of that jolly little human, the bow-leg boy--
The cute little boy!
The funny little boy!
The dear little bow-leg boy!

If ever the doctor-man comes my way
With his wonderful box in his two-wheel shay,
I 'll ask for the treasure I'd fain possess--
Now, honest Injun! can't you guess?
Why, a cute little boy--
A funny little boy--
A dear little bow-leg boy!

poem by Eugene Field
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How The Old Horse Won The Bet

DEDICATED BY A CONTRIBUTOR TO THE COLLEGIAN,
1830, TO THE EDITORS OF THE HARVARD ADVOCATE, 1876.

'T WAS on the famous trotting-ground,
The betting men were gathered round
From far and near; the 'cracks' were there
Whose deeds the sporting prints declare
The swift g. m., Old Hiram's nag,
The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiffer's brag,
With these a third--and who is he
That stands beside his fast b. g.?
Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name
So fills the nasal trump of fame.
There too stood many a noted steed
Of Messenger and Morgan breed;
Green horses also, not a few;
Unknown as yet what they could do;
And all the hacks that know so well
The scourgings of the Sunday swell.

Blue are the skies of opening day;
The bordering turf is green with May;
The sunshine's golden gleam is thrown
On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan;
The horses paw and prance and neigh,
Fillies and colts like kittens play,
And dance and toss their rippled manes
Shining and soft as silken skeins;
Wagons and gigs are ranged about,
And fashion flaunts her gay turn-out;
Here stands--each youthful Jehu's dream
The jointed tandem, ticklish team!
And there in ampler breadth expand
The splendors of the four-in-hand;
On faultless ties and glossy tiles
The lovely bonnets beam their smiles;
(The style's the man, so books avow;
The style's the woman, anyhow);
From flounces frothed with creamy lace
Peeps out the pug-dog's smutty face,
Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye,
Or stares the wiry pet of Skye,--
O woman, in your hours of ease
So shy with us, so free with these!

'Come on! I 'll bet you two to one
I 'll make him do it!' 'Will you? Done!'

What was it who was bound to do?
I did not hear and can't tell you,--

[...] Read more

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Yo Vanilla Kick It One Time Boy

Yo, Vanilla, kick it one time, boy!
Yo, VIP, let's kick it!
Ice Ice Baby
Ice Ice Baby
All right stop
Collaborate and listen
Ice is back with my brand new invention
Something grabs a hold of me tightly
Then I flow that a harpoon daily and nightly
Will it ever stop?
Yo, I don't know
Turn off the lights and I'll glow
To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal
Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle
Dance
Bum rush the speaker that booms
I'm killin your brain like a poisonous mushroom
Deadly, when I play a dope melody
Anything less that the best is a felony
Love it or leave it
You better gain way
You better hit bull's eye
The kid dont play
If there was a problem
Yo, I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it
Ice Ice Baby Vanilla [4x]
Now that the party is jumping
With the bass kicked in, the Vegas are pumpin'
Quick to the point, to the point no faking
I'm cooking MC's like a pound of bacon
Burning them if they're not quick and nimble
I go crazy when I hear a cymbal
And a hi hat with a souped up tempo
I'm on a roll and it's time to go solo
Rollin in my 5.0
With my ragtop down so my hair can blow
The girlies on standby
Waving just to say HI
Did you stop?
No, I just drove by
Kept on pursuing to the next stop
I busted a left and I'm heading to the next block
That block was dead
Yo, so I continued to A1A Beachfront Ave.
Girls were hot wearing less than bikinis
Rockman lovers driving Lamborghinis
Jealous 'cause I'm out getting mine
Shay with a guage and Vanilla with a nine
Reading for the chumps on the wall

[...] Read more

song performed by Vanilla Ice
Added by Lucian Velea
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Fade to Grey

Shane and Shay raking leaves in the autumn breeze
oh to be free under the trees in that autumn breeze
Tumbling and falling, scarlet red and amber warm
Shane and Shay in sync with fall
my loves, my life
The warm colors of autumn dusk, all too fast to fade
Winter beckons at the door; harkening no more falls
Scarlet tears mixed with gentle blue
sorrow and joy of maternal dues
Separate now, no longer one
No more days of raking leaves in an autumn breeze
Amber warm love gone gray
Why do my young ones stray

poem by Ophelia Deborah Payne Jarrett
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