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Some Things In Life Do Work

well, it will not be
totally true
that nothing
in this life
works

some still
do, in fact
the way
you handle
reality like
tools before
you: a screw
a hammer
a nail
some pieces
of wood
and some
glue

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Back When - Tim McGraw

Don't you remember
The fizz in a pepper,
Peanuts in a bottle
At ten, two, and four.
A fried bologna (boloney) sandwich,
With mayo and tomato,
Sittin' 'round the table
Don't happen much anymore.
We got too complicated,
It's all way overrated,
I like the old-and-out-dated,
Way of life
(chorus)
Back when a hoe was a hoe,
A coke was a coke,
And crack's what you were doin'
When you were crackin' jokes.
Back when a screw was a screw.,
The wind was all that blew,
And when you said, 'I'm down with that, '

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poem by Rebecca Ryan
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No Votes For You

A nobody is who we need.
Not a puppet on some strings.
A choice vote
A angry vote
An absence of vote
Some choice words
To those elitist who think its funny.
Screw your money.
You do not have my support
No matter your tactics of resort.
Splash the t.v. screens with images of nothing but you
An idol, A hero
If that was only so
But We Know! ! !
This is my slogan.
Let it take effect in the hearts and minds of the people who brought you to power.
With promises of well wishes.
That never happened.
A disabled man with no legs can't even afford his own medicine
Life sustaining, Life needing

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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While You Skate

You can't break my heart and run,
Believing that will stimulate...
Since you've done it to invigorate,
While you skate.
Oh no!
No no.
No. No. No. No. No. No. Oh nooo!

You can't do what's been done before,
To pat and scratch like a puppy begging for more.
Ooo oh no.
No no.
No. No. No. No. No. No. Oh nooo!

Hold up on that locomotive.
With motives to bowl me all over...
Or roll in granola.

I'm much wiser...
Older.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Houghton's Bank

HOUGHTON'S BANK

Herd instinct wannabes beg bridge funds, but
Often, spendthrift, find requests for loans
Unsecured denied. Bank makes no bones
Grabbing from those who’d raise themselves from rut,
Hand extended, scored, endures deep cut,
Turns topsy-turvy projects, risk condones,
Obstructing time-vault access with crisp tones,
Neat writing on the wall cites scuttlebutt.
Banking’s a profession where the gut
Active role takes, stakes past winners, drones
Need putting in their place. Prudence postpones
Knackers’ needs, weeds, tightens screw, bolt and nut.
However write-offs rise as profits fall,
Because tight guidelines can’t encompass all.

13 July 1992 revised 2 January 2009
robi03_0581_robi03_0000 ASX_JXX

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Wallabi Joe

The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
For there never was seen such a regular screw
As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
That Wallabi Joe's a fine lump of a horse;
But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,
He'd barely do for a Sunday's ride.

O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
"I'm weary of galloping now," he cried,
"I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
And I feel that my legs won't stand much more."

Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
And off he rode with a whip in his hand
To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Mere Shadows March

Welcome to the shadow march
Longer then longest lines of the undying
To many reasons never enough answer
here another
here another
why the did this happen to me
why did everybody give up
when i was at my weakest
now ill shall surround myself with those who are silent
no ill intent
none want revenge
they just want to be avenged
given the respect do'ly deserved
as we all do we want those who wrong us to make it right
a little give then a little take
welcome to the shadow march
Longer then the longest lines of the undying
to many reasons never enough answers
here's another
here's another

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The Song of a Prison

Now this is the song of a prison—a song of a gaol or jug—
A ballad of quod or of chokey, the ultimate home of the mug.
The yard where the Foolish are drafted; Hell’s school where the harmless are taught;
For the big beast never is captured and the great thief never is caught.
A song of the trollop’s victim, and the dealer in doubtful eggs,
And a song of the man who was ruined by the lie with a thousand legs.
A song of suspected persons and rouge-and-vagabond pals,
And of persons beyond suspicion—the habitual criminals.

’Tis a song of the weary warders, whom prisoners call “the screws”—
A class of men who I fancy would cleave to the “Evening News.”
They look after their treasures sadly. By the screw of their keys they are known,
And they screw them many times daily before they draw their own.

It is written on paper pilfered from the prison printery,
With a stolen stump of a pencil that a felon smuggled for me.
And he’d have got twenty-four hours in the cells if he had been caught,
With bread to eat and water to drink and plenty of food for thought.

And I paid in chews of tobacco from one who is in for life;

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poem by Henry Lawson
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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,

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Gerbil

he gets out of bed
he goes to the room
he turns on the set
he is as smart as a broom

hey you brainless
how'd you lose us?
hey you thoughtless
how'd you screw us?

it starts on his head
he tries not to hear
it gets worse instead
he checks out of here

hey you dumb ass
how'd you lose us?
hey you headless
how'd you screw us?

song performed by Filter from Short Bus
Added by Lucian Velea
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