Quotes about hat., page 19
Hey Nelly Nelly
Hey Nelly Nelly, come to the window
Hey Nelly Nelly look at what I see
He's riding into town on a sway back mule
Got a tall black hat and he looks like a fool
He sure is talkin' like he's been to school
And it's 1853
Hey Nelly Nelly, listen what he's sayin'
Hey Nelly Nelly, he says it's gettin' late
And he says them black folks should all be free
To walk around the same as you and me
He's talkin' 'bout a thing he calls democracy
And it's 1858
Hey Nelly Nelly hear the band a playing
Hey Nelly Nelly, hand me down my gun
'Cause the men are cheerin' and the boys are too
They're all puttin' on their coats of blue
I can't sit around here and talk to you
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poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Truly Blest
An old straw hat, abandoned, lay upon a chair,
A hoe was leaning lazily, up against a fence.
The bees were humming busily on the evening air,
In this delightful garden filled with subtle wafting scents.
Somewhere a thrush sang out with volume high,
A pigeon cooed its soft and soothing tune.
Strutting curiously, was an arrogant, shrewd magpie,
All to be savoured, on this balmy summer's noon.
The sun shone bright on lawn and mottled stone,
On flowers painted in all their vibrant hues.
And here and there the hollyhocks had grown
Up towards a sky, rich in a medley of blues.
What peace reigned here, within this sunlit bower,
A tranquil calmness, we all so long to find.
To sit, relax and sleep for just one hour,
Letting body and soul, progressively unwind.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The city has a deadly wound
The city has a deadly wound
and on the street without a place to go,
sits an old man and his old wife
and their small white dog.
I see a blonde girl watching cars,
to buy a piece of bread
and her face tells that she has problems
and I wonder how she washes
the dirt of the road from herself?
a Red haired guy sleeps in boxes on the sidewalk
and at a traffic light there’s children that sniffs glue.
At another traffic light
there’s a couple with a baby,
that stands in the hot sun
and is dependant on motorists for their fate.
Just before a traffic circle there’s a man
with short pants,
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poem by Gert Strydom
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We Mean to Say
We mean to say, it never has been granted
That anyone but England could decide,
In the crease or at the wicket,
Just exactly what was cricket
And, of course, I mean to say, we have our pride.
The great old game was, as it were, invented
On the playing fields of Eton, and all that,
And to try to steal our thunder
When you think we've made a blunder
Why, dear old bean, that's talking thro' the hat!
We mean to say - the game originated
With us, back in the dear old top-hat days,
And the gentlemen who played it,
By their sterling methods, made it
A top-hole game for sportsmen - hence the phrase.
So, hang it all! If something 'isn't cricket'
It's our prerogative to say so, flat.
And it's cheek, you know, cool cheek,
When you dash in, so to speak,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cowboy rides a stallion
In the Desert, a Cowboy rides a stallion,
An Outlaw, a Hero, his name is Mr. McCallion
He says Rules are for the fools
Morals good for the moron
With his shining Spurs, he drives his stallion
Here with the winds now you see comes Mr. McCallion
In the mid of the day, When the group of bandit rob the bank
Like the hero, he appear, from the bullets he save Sheriff Frank
People comes to offer him thank
But he remains calm and dank
Sets his Hat and he moves on
Salute the Mayor and say Good Bye John
His horse in thirst and his boots in mud
From his jacket he wash dirty blood
He enters the saloon, full of womanhood girls
They come and wink and kiss and swirl
Finish his drink, and walks to his stallion
Girls shout, come again Mr. McCallion
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poem by Dave Tanwar
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Got Chocolate?
Snowflakes the size of marshmallows fall to the earth;
Frosty icy winds play havoc with her red curly hair.
She delights in frolicking in snow so deep;
Bundled up in bright green coat and leggings,
pink hat, scarf and gloves
she brightens up the gray day.
Grandpa dons his own snow gear, dark brown coat,
black ear muffs, gloves and red Santa hat;
shovel in hand he begins to clear the path
when 'she' playfully jumps into it re-snowing it
to Grandpa's chagrin as he grins
pretending to be annoyed.
but he re-shovels again with great patience.
The worst of the storm has passed. The white stuff
is the perfect setting this day, this Christmas Eve.
Cold, wet and tired Grandpa and granddaughter
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poem by Mel Patterson
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Nashville Casualty & Life
In faded gabardine he used to stand
Down by the union station with that ol hat in his hand.
A banjo-pickin devil, a singin rag-time saint.
The young folks called him beautiful, the old folks called him quaint.
And the station-master pointed to the sign
And they busted him for loiterin when he was makin memories rhyme.
Out in the falling snow hed sing his song
To a world too cold to listen and too white to sing along.
Just a nashville casualty and life
Done left him without a dime.
Ever since the good lord took his wife
Youll find him strummin on the corner all the time.
And most of music city never the saw the world within the song
Of a nashville casualty and life goes on.
In the attic sets a dusty hat and cane
And the kids they found a banjo there all rusted from the rain.
I strummed a little rusty rag-time beat
And I sang for every soul out on the street.
I could almost see him standin in the rain
His black and blinded face reflectin all the pain
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song performed by Kinky Friedman, lyrics by Kinky Friedman
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Blazing Hat, Part Two
This is the morning that we burnt a cardboard hat
flames licking the inside of the brim
This is the morning that the thunder hung like great
black flags over the city
stirred by gusts of wind
This is the morning that they opened a new motorway
leading from my house to yours
This is the morning that I decided I wasn't getting enough
roughage
and went on a diet of broken milk bottles
This is the morning that Death left her cloak behind
after the party
This is the morning that a beautiful schoolgirl woke me
with a cup of coffee
in a vision
This is the morning that we saw
words written on water
This is the morning that beautiful girls with Renaissance
faces played Hindemith records
at dawn
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poem by Adrian Henri
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Halloween Yolin
HALLOWEEN YOLIN
Charming her smile. Black painted hat
Halloween prepared by night.
Rising from sheets of purest white
In haste she dressed, caressed the cat.
Scorpions, spiders, sable bat,
The table decked, while pumpkin bright
Inside did glow with candle light.
No pains she spared while father sat,
Eyed lips dyed in vermillion vat, -
Yet inside thoughts turned out not! Kite
Only flew to test insight.
Light-hearted talk tripped pitapat.
If Tuesday's dinner she renews
No other venu would I choose!
C'était la sorcière en noir toute vêtue,
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Our Town Awakes
Six o'clock. From the railway yard
The engine toots; careering hard,
A milk-cart rattles by and stops;
A magpie calls from the gum-tree tops;
The pub 'boots', sweeping out the bar,
Waves to the early service-car,
While the town's chief toper waits outside,
Woe-begone and bleary-eyed;
Two cows go lowing down the way;
A rooster crows. It's another day.
Eight o'clock. The tradesmen come
Shop-boys whistling, masters glum,
To stand at doors and stretch and yawn;
Fronts are swept and blinds are drawn;
The washerwoman, Mrs Dubbs,
Slip-slops off to her taps and tubs,
Washing clothes for other folk;
The cheery barber cracks a joke,
But the day's first client fails to laugh -
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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