Quotes about locket, page 5
Lines By A Clerk
OH! I did love her dearly,
And gave her toys and rings,
And I thought she meant sincerely,
When she took my pretty things.
But her heart has grown as icy
As a fountain in the fall,
And her love, that was so spicy,
It did not last at all.
I gave her once a locket,
It was filled with my own hair,
And she put it in her pocket
With very special care.
But a jeweller has got it,--
He offered it to me,--
And another that is not it
Around her neck I see.
For my cooings and my billings
I do not now complain,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Sugar Coated Dreams
Imagine yourself in a magical place
With candy and goodies surrounding your face
With rivers of caramel and trees made of chocolate
You meet a kind truffle, he gives you a locket
You fly over mountains and hills made of dreams
Fly with your friends in your flying machines.
But don't go to the area darkened by storm
Its not very safe and the people aren't warm.
They're a not-so-good lot, they're often suspicious
Not like the first place, where its all so delicious
So stay close to the candy and don't stray too far
Ride to the movies on the candy trolley car
All of the kindhearted people you meet
Are throwing a party and saved you a seat.
The marshmallow meadow of purple and blue
Is Where the candy princess is waiting for you.
You'll dance to the music and all through the night
The floor's made of candy but don't take a bite.
And as your journey comes to a close
The scent of warm cookies climbs into your nose
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poem by Les Wordsmore
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How Pretty You Feel
Roses are red
Violets are blue
The leaves are green
And so are you
Your flesh begins to rot
Your skin begins to peel
So tell me please how pretty you feel
Your once white teeth are yellow
Your hands a nasty grey
That leak with blood, puss, and decay
They are wrapped around a once stunning bouquet
Your golden chain is imbedded in you maggot ridden neck
With a dainty locket in its grip
Pop it open and what do you see?
Oh, but a clock that is forever striking half past three
On the other side is a dusty photo of a man and an alive you
And on the front engraved in the gold are words that coo
'You make my heart beat'
Funny how he does not greave
And do you remember why he broke your heart
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poem by Rachel Dowd
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Udder Budder
A frog, with bulbous eyes and green
was in the mornings often seen
out in the barn when Farmer Fritz
was busy milking bovine tits.
One morning Fritz had kicked the bucket
and yelled a word that rhymes with locket,
he left to get, inside the house,
a new container from his spouse.
While Fritz was gone, the other bucket
was standing there, and, like a rocket,
the frog jumped in to have a drink.
He drank but soon began to sink.
In panic, he swam ever quicker,
placed great demands upon his ticker,
yet he could see (he had a brain)
that efforts might well be in vain.
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poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Ode to a Twilight Sky
Ode to a Twilight Sky
By: Adam M. Snow
To bear witness to the beauty above,
to know it's everything one could love.
With the sights of the twinkling lights,
hiding their days, not their nights.
They dance around the sun and moon,
dances to a glorious Heaven's tune.
They will fly throughout the twilight sky,
we hurry to make a wish as they fly by.
We lie on the grass and connect the dots,
fantasy never ends for we know there's lots.
We could try and count them all one by one,
but there are some things that could never be done.
All stars can be seen at night yet one during the day
how glorious it is to see them riding the Milky Way.
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poem by Adam M. Snow
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The Golden Horse
She rolled up her Faith
in me
each night
using it for her soft pillow.
She had the Love We Shared
in a locket around her neck.
Her covers were her Blanket
of Hopes and Dreams,
and I told her stories
of knights,
castles
and her favorites-
of the Golden Horse
and Pedro
-Two Musketeers.
'The Golden Horse
and Pedro' I said
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Peace Maker
It has a “point” of neither sex
But comes in guise of both,
And, doubly dangerous complex,
It is a thing to loathe—
A lady with her sweet, sad smile,
A gentleman on oath.
Strip off the mother-veil, and fur!
And signs of “quiet taste”.
The dead child’s locket take from her
(The dead man’s gift in haste)
And wash from every evil line
The layers of filling paste!
From “saddened eyes” the hell’s own glare!
From “sweet mouth” blasphemy!
Wrench out the gold-filled false teeth there
That twice mock honesty,
And leave the evil face awry
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poem by Henry Lawson
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Live for, die for
Love once saw himself
in a mirror
and was trapped
by the void
of his own being,
he was all heart
and no head.
It was
an image of himself
that he would
never forget
and ever since that day
you can find him
on dance floors
between partners,
he is the perspiration
on the palms
of two lovers,
the frame
holding the
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poem by Vanessa Grixti
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To a Young Lady, With Some Lampreys
With lovers, ’twas of old the fashion
By presents to convey their passion;
No matter what the gift they sent,
The Lady saw that love was meant.
Fair Atalanta, as a favour,
Took the boar’s head her Hero gave her;
Nor could the bristly thing affront her,
’Twas a fit present from a hunter.
When Squires send woodcocks to the dame,
It serves to show their absent flame:
Some by a snip of woven hair,
In posied lockets bribe the fair;
How many mercenary matches
Have sprung from Di’mond-rings and watches!
But hold – a ring, a watch, a locket,
Would drain at once a Poet’s pocket;
He should send songs that cost him nought,
Nor ev’n he prodigal of thought.
Why then send Lampreys? fye, for shame!
’Twill set a virgin’s blood on flame.
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poem by John Gay
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Wolves Out Tonight
Wolves out tonight.
The smart dogs are stay-at-homes.
No berries. The bears have torn up
the garbage dumps and heaped
what fat they could manage in caves
to sleep their hunger away
in whatever a bear dreams of.
The natives are predicting a hard winter
by counting beads on an abacus of holly.
Corrugated drifts of the first snow,
wavelength after wavelength of a frozen tide
even if you were to take it at the high
would lead to nowhere but here
where the common mullein
whose cobs and towers of yellow flowers
are now rags of light
thrown to the back of the closet of the sun,
its grey-green felt leaves
too brittle and withered
to insulate an Ojibway’s moccasin.
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poem by Patrick White
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