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He was as fresh as is the month of May.

Geoffrey Chaucer in The Canterbury Tales (1390)
Added by Lucian Velea
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That's It That's All

Back on the scene for ya'll people's delight
You want peace for the people then ya say alright
'Cause George W's got nothing on me
We got to take the power from he
When I'm on the mic I feel good to go
Like a snow day for school with hot cocoa
So don't speak what I heard, just say what I know
And my zodiac sign is Scorpio
Look what the cat dragged in
The creme de la creme without the skin
So take a rest and mind your own biz
And that's it that's all that's all there is
Fresh...fresh...fresh...for you...for you...for you
That's fresh...fresh...fresh...for you...for you...for you
One for Brooklyn, two for Manhattan
Let's go to work, get those hands clappin'
Make you bounce, rock, roll and skate
Don't underrate how I operate
It ain't what you say, it's what you mean
Intention leads to action, that is my theme
So pay attention now as I begin to recap
Puttin' words and ideas stacked back to back
Some rhymes go flat, well mine go fizz
I got no time for the drama 'cause stress is for kids
'Cause when you're dead and buried well you got no biz
And that's it that's all that's all there is
Fresh...fresh...fresh...for you...for you...for you
That's fresh...fresh...fresh...for you...for you...for you
Brand new
The time and place for the mind is here and now
Keep the mind present less to worry about
But like the hammer to the nail hit the nail on the head
Well I don't shoot blanks and I don't shoot lead
Well I'm a freaky streaker like Winnie the Pooh
T-shirt and no pants and I dance the bugaloo
Like George Whipple on New York One
Got a hairy ass and that's no fun
I'm in the rhyme zone a different time zone
And on the microphone you know that I'm at home
It's time we looked past all our differences
An' that's it that's all that's all there is
Come on
Fresh...fresh...fresh...for you...for you...for you
That's fresh...fresh...fresh...for you...for you...for you
An' that's
Fresh...fresh...fresh...for you...for you...for you
That's fresh...fresh...fresh...for you...for you...for you

song performed by Beastie Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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[9] O, Moon, My Sweet-heart!

O, Moon, My Sweet-heart!
[LOVE POEMS]

POET: MAHENDRA BHATNAGAR

POEMS

1 Passion And Compassion / 1
2 Affection
3 Willing To Live
4 Passion And Compassion / 2
5 Boon
6 Remembrance
7 Pretext
8 To A Distant Person
9 Perception
10 Conclusion
10 You (1)
11 Symbol
12 You (2)
13 In Vain
14 One Night
15 Suddenly
16 Meeting
17 Touch
18 Face To Face
19 Co-Traveller
20 Once And Once only
21 Touchstone
22 In Chorus
23 Good Omens
24 Even Then
25 An Evening At ‘Tighiraa’ (1)
26 An Evening At ‘Tighiraa’ (2)
27 Life Aspirant
28 To The Condemned Woman
29 A Submission
30 At Midday
31 I Accept
32 Who Are You?
33 Solicitation
34 Accept Me
35 Again After Ages …
36 Day-Dreaming
37 Who Are You?
38 You Embellished In Song

[...] Read more

poem by Mahendra Bhatnagar
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It Is Fresh If Kept, Cool

It is fresh if kept,
Away from that which spoils...
Those attitudes,
Quicken to darken by a mood.

It's fresh if kept,
Together without salt.
And a peppered tongue,
Spiced with words from a mouth to come out!

It is fresh if kept,
Away from evil people.
A mind that finds,
A peace inside...
Found from nine to five!
And from...
Five to nine!

It's fresh if kept,
Cool.
It is fresh if kept,
Away from fools.

It's fresh if kept,
Cool.
It is fresh if kept,
Away from fools.

It is fresh if kept,
Away from evil people.
A mind that finds,
A peace inside...
Found from nine to five!
And...
Five to nine!

Evil will have those you love dearly,
Convinced...
You are not who you are!

It is fresh if kept,
Away from that which spoils...
Those attitudes,
Quicken to darken by a mood.

It's fresh if kept,
Cool.
It is fresh if kept,
Away from fools.
It's fresh if kept,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fresh Blood

All the neighbours never see me
But they wonder why I walk around at night
He gets hungry - I go hunting
In the moonlit streets
For somebody that's right
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Showgirls, businessmen in suits in the midnight rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
In the paper, seems a florist
Found in Lincoln Park, died of some anemia
No one raped her, poor Doloris
Just detained her and drained her on the spot
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Old men, ladies of the night walking in the rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
No one calls and no one visits
We're like a couplet out of Desolation Row
We don't want them to want to know us
'Cause when they do, they get a little bit too close
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast is all I'm living for
And I crave it more and more
Bad girls, cops on the beat in the midnight rain
If they're out alone, are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me

song performed by Alice Cooper
Added by Lucian Velea
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Fresh blood (Lyrics)

All the neighbours never see me
But they wonder why I walk around at night
he gets hungry - I go hunting
In the moonlit streets
For somebody that's right

Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Showgirls, businessmen in suits in the midnight rain
If they walk alone are never seen again

In the paper, seems a florist
Found in Lincoln Park, died of some anemia
No one raped her, poor Doloris,
Just detained her and drained her on the spot

Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Old men, ladies of the night walking in the rain
If they walk alone are never seen again

Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me

No one calls and no one visits
We're like a couplet out of Desolation Row
We don't want them to want to know us
'Cause when they do, they get a little bit too close

Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast is all I'm living for
and I crave it more and more
Bad girls, cops on the beat in the midnight rain
If they're out alone, are never seen again

Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me

poem by Satan's Sibling
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Medley: Hallelujah / Last Month Of The Year

(l. cohen/traditional)
Hallelujah was originally contained in leonard cohen's various positions, while last month of the year is a blues traditional. on the cd booklet this song is credited only as hallelujah.
I heard there was a secret chord
That david played and it pleased the lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this :
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrough ya
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
Baby i've been here before
I've seen this room and i've walked this floor
I used to live alone before i knew ya
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
And love is not some victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
There was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me do ya
But remember when i moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was hallelujah
Well, maybe there's a god above
But all i've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah,
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah...
[and here starts last month of the year]
Tell me what month was jesus born in
Last month of the year
Tell me what month was jesus born in
Last month of the year
Got january, january, march oh lord
Got april, may and june lord
You got july oh yeah
September, october and november
Got the twenty fifty
December is the last month of the year
What month was jesus born in
Last month of the year

[...] Read more

song performed by Jeff Buckley
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Menologium. (Preface To The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles)

CHRIST WAS BORN, KING OF GLORY
in midwinter, mighty prince,
eternal, almighty, on the eighth day,
Healer, called, heaven's ward;
so at the same time singing praises
countless folk begin the year,
for the awaited time comes to town,
the first month, famous January.
Five nights later the Lord's baptism,
and eternal God's epiphany comes;
the twelve-days' time to blessed men known,
by us in Britain called Twelfthnight.
Four weeks later February falls,
Sol-month brighter settles in town,
a month minus two days;
so February's way was reckoned by the wise,
One night more is Mary's mass,
the King's mother; for on that day Christ,
the child of the Ruler, she revealed in the temple.
After five nights winter was fared,
and after seventeen he suffered death:
the Saviour's man, great Matthew,
when spring has come to stay in town.
And to the folk after five nights
-- unless it is Leap Year, when it comes one night later --
by his cold clothes of frost and hail
wild March is known throughout the world,
Hlyda-month, blowing loud,
Eleven nights later, holy and noble,
Gregory shone in God's service,
honoured in Britain. So Benedict,
nine nights passing, sought the Preserver,
the resolute man celebrated in writings
by men under his rule. So the wise in reckoning
at that time count the equinox,
because, wielding power, God at the beginning
made on the same day sun and moon.
Four nights after the Father
sent the equinox, his archangel announced
the mighty salvation to great Mary,
that she the Shaper of all should bear
bring to birth the best of kings,
as it was widely told through the world;
that was a great destiny delivered to us.
So after seven nights the Saviour sends
the month of April, most often bringing
the mighty time of comfort to mankind,
the Lord's resurrection, when joy is rightly
celebrated everywhere, as that wise one sang:
'This is the day which the Lord hath made;

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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In The Month When Sings The Cuckoo

Hark! Spring is coming. Her herald sings,
Cuckoo!
The air resounds and the woodland rings,
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
Leave the milking pail and the mantling cream,
And down by the meadow, and up by the stream,
Where movement is music and life a dream,
In the month when sings the cuckoo.

Away with old Winter's frowns and fears,
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
Now May with a smile dries April's tears.
Cuckoo!
When the bees are humming in bloom and bud,
And the kine sit chewing the moist green cud,
Shall the snow not melt in a maiden's blood,
In the month when sings the cuckoo?

The popinjay mates and the lapwing woos;
Cuckoo!
In the lane is a footstep. I wonder whose?
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
How sweet are low whispers! and sweet, so sweet,
When the warm hands touch and the shy lips meet,
And sorrel and woodruff are round our feet,
In the month when sings the cuckoo.

Your face is as fragrant as moist musk-rose;
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
All the year in your cheek the windflower blows;
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
You flit as blithely as bird on wing;
And when you answer, and when they sing,
I know not if they, or You, be Spring,
In the month when pairs the cuckoo.

Will you love me still when the blossom droops?
Cuckoo!
When the cracked husk falls and the fieldfare troops?
Cuckoo!
Let sere leaf or snowdrift shade your brow,
By the soul of the Spring, sweet-heart, I vow,
I will love you then as I love you now,
In the month when sings the cuckoo.

Smooth, smooth is the sward where the loosestrife grows,
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
As we lie and hear in a dreamy doze,
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
And smooth is the curve of a maiden's cheek,

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Austin
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Seventh Book

'THE woman's motive? shall we daub ourselves
With finding roots for nettles? 'tis soft clay
And easily explored. She had the means,
The moneys, by the lady's liberal grace,
In trust for that Australian scheme and me,
Which so, that she might clutch with both her hands,
And chink to her naughty uses undisturbed,
She served me (after all it was not strange,;
'Twas only what my mother would have done)
A motherly, unmerciful, good turn.

'Well, after. There are nettles everywhere,
But smooth green grasses are more common still;
The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud;
A miller's wife at Clichy took me in
And spent her pity on me,–made me calm
And merely very reasonably sad.
She found me a servant's place in Paris where
I tried to take the cast-off life again,
And stood as quiet as a beaten ass
Who, having fallen through overloads, stands up
To let them charge him with another pack.

'A few months, so. My mistress, young and light,
Was easy with me, less for kindness than
Because she led, herself, an easy time
Betwixt her lover and her looking-glass,
Scarce knowing which way she was praised the most.
She felt so pretty and so pleased all day
She could not take the trouble to be cross,
But sometimes, as I stooped to tie her shoe,
Would tap me softly with her slender foot
Still restless with the last night's dancing in't,
And say 'Fie, pale-face! are you English girls
'All grave and silent? mass-book still, and Lent?
'And first-communion colours on your cheeks,
'Worn past the time for't? little fool, be gay!'
At which she vanished, like a fairy, through
A gap of silver laughter.
'Came an hour
When all went otherwise. She did not speak,
But clenched her brows, and clipped me with her eyes
As if a viper with a pair of tongs,
Too far for any touch, yet near enough
To view the writhing creature,–then at last,
'Stand still there, in the holy Virgin's name,
'Thou Marian; thou'rt no reputable girl,
'Although sufficient dull for twenty saints!
'I think thou mock'st me and my house,' she said;
'Confess thou'lt be a mother in a month,

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A May Burden

Though meadow-ways as I did tread,
The corn grew in great lustihead,
And hey! the beeches burgeoned.
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
It is the month, the jolly month,
It is the jolly month of May.

God ripe the wines and corn, I say,
And wenches for the marriage-day,
And boys to teach love's comely play.
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
It is the month, the jolly month,
It is the jolly month of May.

As I went down by lane and lea,
The daisies reddened so, pardie!
'Blushets!' I said, 'I well do see,
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
The thing ye think of in this month,
Heigho! this jolly month of May.'

As down I went by rye and oats,
The blossoms smelt of kisses; throats
Of birds turned kisses into notes;
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
The kiss it is a growing flower,
I trow, this jolly month of May.

God send a mouth to every kiss,
Seeing the blossom of this bliss
By gathering doth grow, certes!
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
Thy brow-garland pushed all aslant
Tells - but I tell not, wanton May!

poem by Francis Thompson
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July....

July is the month where the families get the barbeque grills fired up.
July is the month where the night sky is light up with fire works.
July is the month where many families go out of town to be with family.
July is the month where many kids are dreary because it’s a month away for school.
July is the month where America gets to celebrate its independence from England.
July is the month where many people are dying of the heat of the summer.
July is my favorite month because it’s the time that I get to be myself around my family.

poem by Natasha Ligons
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IV. Tertium Quid

True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Flower And The Leaf

When that Phebus his chaire of gold so hy
Had whirled up the sterry sky aloft,
And in the Bole was entred certainly;
Whan shoures swete of rain discended soft,
Causing the ground, felë tymes and oft,
Up for to give many an hoolsom air,
And every plain was [eek y-]clothed fair

With newe grene, and maketh smalë floures
To springen here and there in feld and mede;
So very good and hoolsom be the shoures
That it reneweth, that was old and deede
In winter-tyme; and out of every seede
Springeth the herbë, so that every wight
Of this sesoun wexeth [ful] glad and light.

And I, só glad of the seson swete,
Was happed thus upon a certain night;
As I lay in my bed, sleep ful unmete
Was unto me; but, why that I ne might
Rest, I ne wist; for there nas erthly wight,
As I suppose, had more hertës ese
Than I, for I n'ad siknesse nor disese.

Wherfore I mervail gretly of my-selve,
That I so long, withouten sleepë lay;
And up I roos, three houres after twelve,
About the [very] springing of the day,
And on I put my gere and myn array;
And to a plesaunt grovë I gan passe,
Long or the brightë sonne uprisen was,

In which were okës grete, streight as a lyne,
Under the which the gras, so fresh of hew,
Was newly spronge; and an eight foot or nyne
Every tree wel fro his felawe grew,
With braunches brode, laden with leves new,
That sprongen out ayein the sonnë shene,
Som very rede, and som a glad light grene;

Which, as me thought, was right a plesaunt sight.
And eek the briddes song[ës] for to here
Would have rejoised any erthly wight.
And I, that couth not yet, in no manere,
Here the nightingale of al the yere,
Ful busily herkned, with herte and ere,
If I her voice perceive coud any-where.

And at the last, a path of litel brede
I found, that gretly had not used be,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Part I

"That oblong book's the Album; hand it here!
Exactly! page on page of gratitude
For breakfast, dinner, supper, and the view!
I praise these poets: they leave margin-space;
Each stanza seems to gather skirts around,
And primly, trimly, keep the foot's confine,
Modest and maidlike; lubber prose o'er-sprawls
And straddling stops the path from left to right.
Since I want space to do my cipher-work,
Which poem spares a corner? What comes first?
'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'
(Open the window, we burn daylight, boy!)
Or see—succincter beauty, brief and bold—
'If a fellow can dine On rumpsteaks and port wine,
He needs not despair Of dining well here—'
'Here!' I myself could find a better rhyme!
That bard's a Browning; he neglects the form:
But ah, the sense, ye gods, the weighty sense!
Still, I prefer this classic. Ay, throw wide!
I'll quench the bits of candle yet unburnt.
A minute's fresh air, then to cipher-work!
Three little columns hold the whole account:
Ecarté, after which Blind Hookey, then
Cutting-the-Pack, five hundred pounds the cut.
'Tis easy reckoning: I have lost, I think."

Two personages occupy this room
Shabby-genteel, that's parlor to the inn
Perched on a view-commanding eminence;
———— -Inn which may be a veritable house
Where somebody once lived and pleased good taste
Till tourists found his coign of vantage out,
And fingered blunt the individual mark
And vulgarized things comfortably smooth.
On a sprig-pattern-papered wall there brays
Complaint to sky Sir Edwin's dripping stag;
His couchant coast-guard creature corresponds;
They face the Huguenot and Light o' the World.
Grim o'er the mirror on the mantlepiece,
Varnished and coffined, Salmo ferox glares
—Possibly at the List of Wines which, framed
And glazed, hangs somewhat prominent on peg.

So much describes the stuffy little room—
Vulgar flat smooth respectability:
Not so the burst of landscape surging in,
Sunrise and all, as he who of the pair
Is, plain enough, the younger personage
Draws sharp the shrieking curtain, sends aloft
The sash, spreads wide and fastens back to wall

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Inn Album (1875)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fresh Interlude

Yo yo, this wyclef, alongside dj skribble (for the ladies)
Yo skribble I have one question
Could you please answer this for me?
I gotta know this yo
What makes a dj *cut and scratched fresh*
What makes an mc *cut and scratch fresh*
What makes the refugees *scratch fresh*
Why are kids getting jealous?
Cause we f, r, e, s, h
Fresh, fresh, fresh, thats, fresh!
F, r, e, s, h
Fresh, fresh, fresh, thats, fresh!
Hey you, player, with the dibble and the dabble
You wanna battle who? wyclef or dj skribble
Hold the stickup its a freestyle session
Skribble where you from man *scratched long island*
Well Im from haiti, then brooklyn, then jersey
With a universal tag, plus I got *scratched money in the bag*
You slept on this musician, plus the hip-hop art
Bring your best mcs *scratched what? *
Cause every man got disciples if you ever want a rival
Show up, with a mic, and a rifle
Wyclef stuck the bank at mid-day
And took all of sony money, in a black van he got away
I just got a call from tommy mottola
He said forget about it oh my word
So I held john agrassia, at gunpoint
Hes shook, callin donny aiena, while smokin a joint
I said, whos the informer? they say, michael malden
I had to take him out three the hard way!
The moral of this story dont blame the record company
If your record aint selling you lack creativity
But what you want me to say? what what you want me to say huh?
Yo Ive been trying to get a deal for, years and it aint
What you want me to say?
*cut and scratched hehehehehehe*
*cut and scratched ju-ju-just shut up*
*cut and scratched bite it!*
*mix the above three*
And Ill kill anyone, who dares to go against me!

song performed by Wyclef Jean
Added by Lucian Velea
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Angeliou

Angeliou oh angeliou
Oh oh angeliou angeliou
Oh angeliou oh angeliou oh my angeliou
In the month of may
In the month of may
In the city of paris
In the month of may
In the month of may
In the city of paris
And I heard the bells ringing, and I heard the bells ringing
In the month of may
In the city of paris and I called out your name
In the month of may
In the city of paris
In the month of may
In the city of paris
Oh oh angeliou oh angeliou oh oh angeliou oh my angeliou
Walkin on a city street who would think you could ever be touched
By a total stranger, not me
But when you came up to me that day and I listened to your story
It reminded me so much of myself
It wasnt what you said but the way it felt to me
About a search and a journey just like mine
Will you be my baby
Will you be my baby now
Will you be my baby
Will you be my baby now
Angeliou oh angeliou
Angeliou oh angeliou
Yes I will yes I will yes I will
After she told all these things to me I said I got a story too
It goes something like this

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Austral Months

January

The first fair month! In singing Summer’s sphere
She glows, the eldest daughter of the year.
All light, all warmth, all passion, breaths of myrrh,
And subtle hints of rose-lands, come with her.
She is the warm, live month of lustre—she
Makes glad the land and lulls the strong, sad sea.
The highest hope comes with her. In her face
Of pure, clear colour lives exalted grace;
Her speech is beauty, and her radiant eyes
Are eloquent with splendid prophecies.

February

The bright-haired, blue-eyed last of Summer. Lo,
Her clear song lives in all the winds that blow;
The upland torrent and the lowland rill,
The stream of valley and the spring of hill,
The pools that slumber and the brooks that run
Where dense the leaves are, green the light of sun,
Take all her grace of voice and colour. She,
With rich warm vine-blood splashed from heel to knee,
Comes radiant through the yellow woodlands. Far
And near her sweet gifts shine like star by star.
She is the true Demeter. Life of root
Glows under her in gardens flushed with fruit;
She fills the fields with strength and passion—makes
A fire of lustre on the lawn-ringed lakes;
Her beauty awes the great wild sea; the height
Of grey magnificence takes strange delight
And softens at her presence, at the dear
Sweet face whose memory beams through all the year.

March

Clear upland voices, full of wind and stream,
Greet March, the sister of the flying beam
And speedy shadow. She, with rainbow crowned,
Lives in a sphere of songs of mazy sound.
The hymn of waters and the gale’s high tone,
With anthems from the thunder’s mountain throne,
Are with her ever. This, behold, is she
Who draws its great cry from the strong, sad sea;
She is the month of majesty. Her force
Is power that moves along a stately course,
Within the lines of order, like no wild
And lawless strength of winter’s fiercest child.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Kendall
Added by Poetry Lover
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Marketing skills in the college of CATs, Crows and Bitches, VIT University!

Once we sail away from home, we begin to crave for our existance and independence, mostly financial. Some of the parents also feel in the same way, while some like mine think that I have not attained enough maturity for handling the green money. I had to shed a fortune amount of tears to finally fulfill my craving for monetary independence, This was accompanied by initiation of my journey to VIT Vellore.

Finally the wait is over. With some wonder at God's immaculate management quota and a polite courteous bow to my parents I can announce to the world at large, that this indeed is a fabulous time to gain financial freedom. Yes, green addiction, here I come.
When I hold my monthly allowance of 8000 bucks in my hand I feel all powerful(even if it is for a day) and thank all mighty, above that my parents, who do not feel that the global meltdown should have a bite of my share too. So as all of us, poor VITians are caught up in the trap of college expenditure. We know that however much we have in hand, it always seems to slip out, akin to sand flowing out of a trembling wrist.
So as it was my first pocket money I was expected to stretch out the entire amount of Rs.8000 for full month without sneaking in a rupee or two from my ATM in return for my innocent rabbit like tune, I throw at parents with some sly intent to my dad. So like a proper accountant (though I don't exactly know what he does, LOL) I will try my hand at organized financial handling and decipher the cryptic ways in which my money leaves me.
The first, foremost and the most arduous task is of getting to college, which involves more than just getting up on time. Since I live in F block, and had previously decided that I will walk down to my college every day(which only God knows why….) I have a scenario where the timing is not its best shape. I have to wake up every day at 6am, thanks to my promise of taking bath every day and then heading to the college. Due to a confusing (in) flexible system, better known as FFCS, my classes were scattered all around the globe. Running from SJT to main building became my daily routine, god never graced me ever and I was always late, kicked outta class everyday. imagine what catastrophe, running in the campus like a burnt ass dog and everything flushes down the gutter, when mam sucks your attendence.
Coming to the topic,
shelling out the bucks system started when I hired an auto anna who used to carry my ass every day, from SJT to MB, at 200 bucks a month.
So in all I spend about 400 bucks on my travel monthly(add 200 bucks more cuz I seldom walk from hostel to SJT) ,
I got to think about food, another necessity. Now, the necessary food according to my mother is the wholesome lunch I am supposed to have. The food court-waala serves quite good stuff, which repels me from mess everyday and I've to live my life with a bunch of friends ordering stuffs that satisfies and sometimes spoils my stomach.(pun intended) .
So around 3k bucks spent on food per month
And now comes the entertainment part, a raghuvindra movie ticket costs50, which is apparently cheaper than I could ever imagine, but don't attract yourself in the positives, the travel charges to the theater is fucking 100 bucks, so 200 bucks on travel every week, therefore 1000 bucks straight away on a wooden seat theater experience.
Comes the Chittoor and Pondicherry trip once a month, straight away loss of 5000 bucks, topic change(Mom keeps an eye on my facebook, so no beer bash experience shared)

How can I forget those scary numbers I see in the ever in phone bills,1000 bucks, no,2000 bucks, hell no..it's Zero always, Man, I'm a VITian, I use a pre paid sim card, preferably spending 2000 bucks a month on roaming calls(yea, I love a girl back in my city, love hurts in every phase of life lol) the right to speech should surely be banned…. what say?
Other expenditure includes buying fancy shampoos twice a month(add 400 bucks to it) , body wash, twice a month(yeah, I take bath regularly, hard to accept, but true: p) , shopping, shopping for the one I love(ugh: /) , mid night maggie almost everyday with a bottle of pepsi and what not!
These are my hard and painful marketing views.
How about a penny for my thoughts?

poem by Nikhil Chandwani
Added by Poetry Lover
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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