Quotes about snap, page 3
Flight Of The Duchess, The
I.
You're my friend:
I was the man the Duke spoke to;
I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too;
So here's the tale from beginning to end,
My friend!
II.
Ours is a great wild country:
If you climb to our castle's top,
I don't see where your eye can stop;
For when you've passed the cornfield country,
Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed,
And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract,
And cattle-tract to open-chase,
And open-chase to the very base
Of the mountain where, at a funeral pace,
Round about, solemn and slow,
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poem by Robert Browning
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The Flight of the Duchess
I
You're my friend:
I was the man the Duke spoke to;
I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too;
So here's the tale from beginning to end,
My friend!
II
Ours is a great wild country:
If you climb to our castle's top,
I don't see where your eye can stop;
For when you've passed the cornfield country,
Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed,
And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract,
And cattle-tract to open-chase,
And open-chase to the very base
Of the mountain where, at a funeral pace,
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poem by Robert Browning from Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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ET Came To Breakfast (Fun Poem 10)
My breakfast was going snap, crackle and pop,
when suddenly in the chair opposite something went plop.
I looked across the table and was astonished to see,
a little green man looking at me.
I blinked a couple of times,
even pinched myself to make sure it was real.
He was, you can believe,
and my breakfast he was trying to steal.
We pulled at the bowl,
no one getting the upper hand,
and then he stuck his finger in the bowl,
and sucked out the blinking lot,
milk and my snap, crackle and pop.
The moral of this story.
If a little green man comes to breakfast,
Get an extra bowl.
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poem by David Harris
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To Clap As I Snap
You want to box me close in a ring.
To see me roped and swinging...
Desperately on a string.
To clap as I snap.
Without a fighting back.
But within me there is a secret,
You and no one else can see.
I'm not the kind to stop and bob and weave...
In weeping.
When I get stuck...
I struggle to my feet to get back up.
You may witness my stumbles.
But I am not the one to lay flat on my butt!
You want to box me close in a ring.
To see me roped and swinging...
Desperately on a string.
To clap as I snap.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If Ah Feel It
I feel that rhythmic vibe alive in people.
And how they meet on the street...
To speak,
And leave.
I feel that rhythm come alive to vibe in people.
And...
I might snap my fingers to create my own beat,
And...
Pat my own feet!
If...
I,
Feel it!
ooo
ooo
ooo
If,
I...
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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As I Lie
As I lie
And snap my fingers,
Remembering a thought
That still lingers,
While tossing and turning
In my bed,
I feel like then
An un-restless dead,
Trying to sleep
Then trying to awake,
With streams of dreams
I hopefully try to break,
I then see a vision
I then hear a thought,
That not long ago
I had caught,
It is now filling me
With silly rhymes,
From a different moment
And also a different time,
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poem by Randy McClave
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The Thinker
Of all the men I ever knew
The tinkingest was Uncle Jim;
If there were any chores to do
We couldn't figure much on him.
He'd have a thinking job on hand,
And on the rocking-chair he'd sit,
And think and think to beat the band,
And snap his galusus and spit.
We kids regarded him with awe -
His beard browned by tobacco stains,
His hayseed had of faded straw
The covered such a bunch of brains.
When some big problem claimed his mind
He'd wrestle with it for a fall;
But some solution he would find,
To be on hand for supper call.
A mute, inglorious Einstein he,
A rocking-chair philosopher;
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poem by Robert William Service
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M o r + o g r o p h y
Examines their ivory-whites.....for a jaundiced shade of yellow,
Sometimes challenging sleep by black joe and sugar cane cubes.
Occasionally dabbing the tip of his index finger 'pon rigid thighs,
They be the first signs of pre-mature Riga....human ossification.
One look thru' his eyes, dead eyes, his tri-pod drags by his side,
Immune to the caffeine in his veins, from the natural ice-water,
Waiting for the celcius to refrigerate the room with sub-zeroe's,
And, procedes to position his queer craft in theatric, erotic style.
Snap, Snap, a smirk of cynical rush, stretching across his visage.
What do you do for a living, asks a child....walking past the room.
I take picture's of the sleeping....boy; what's it look like i'm doing?
Cold as ice, says the boy......COLD AS DEATH.....chides the man!
Waiting by the phone for another call with camera, death in hand;
And, after all he's not the one who lays the quarters on their Eyes.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Gone For Good
A greatness once had,
Can not be recaptured...
By the snap of one's fingers.
Or an emergency visit made,
By one's drug dealer...
Who has promised to restore,
Unblemished visions from the past!
When you are washed up,
You've become washed up for good...
In Hollywood.
Listening to one's self singing,
Sweet melodies...
Recorded on CD's on loan,
From the local library...
Doesn't get empathy from Mother Nature.
When fame and fortune is misused,
In a conscious self abuse.
It becomes known and shown.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Barrel Of A Gun
Click snap bang boom,
range gun shot in zoom lens,
don't step on my toes,
I'll step on your toes too,
you at the barrel of a gun I say boom,
love your looks so,
I shot your ex to get to you,
remember when you spoke,
it was music to my ears,
your dad came in,
lock his jock in his gun,
so I took my barrel,
pointed it to his forehead,
like blood that's blood red,
barrel of a gun like your ex,
small small head,
she spoke to me,
told me to have love with my hand,
all bets off no kiss & tell stand,
watch my hand stance jack my hand,
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poem by Tommy Laster
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