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The Two Ogres

Good children, list, if you're inclined,
And wicked children too -
This pretty ballad is designed
Especially for you.

Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold -
Each TRAITS distinctive had:
The younger was as good as gold,
The elder was as bad.

A wicked, disobedient son
Was JAMES M'ALPINE, and
A contrast to the elder one,
Good APPLEBODY BLAND.

M'ALPINE - brutes like him are few -
In greediness delights,
A melancholy victim to
Unchastened appetites.

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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Ballad: The Two Ogres

Good children, list, if you're inclined,
And wicked children too -
This pretty ballad is designed
Especially for you.

Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold -
Each TRAITS distinctive had:
The younger was as good as gold,
The elder was as bad.

A wicked, disobedient son
Was JAMES M'ALPINE, and
A contrast to the elder one,
Good APPLEBODY BLAND.

M'ALPINE - brutes like him are few -
In greediness delights,
A melancholy victim to
Unchastened appetites.

[...] Read more

poem by WS Gilbert
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It Does Not Matter Anymore

one gets used to it

a bland food one gets used
to blandness and it does not
matter anymore whether bland is
bland or not

one suffers the tastelessness
of routine like a road without a bend
where mountains are there and they
are there without anymore significance
to you whether they cast shadows or not
whether they are tall or leveled
whether they can obstruct or they
can make you pass through

if there is a wall you stop
and you cannot pass you turn around
and find another path

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Winds Message

There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark,
Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow;
It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart iron-bark;
It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below;
It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine,
A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom;
And drifting, drifting far away along the Southern line
It caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume.

It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard--
The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down;
And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred
A thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town;
And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understand
The magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow,
Nor how the roving wind could bring across the Overland
A sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago.

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Volvo Driving Soccer Mom

Na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na
You know I used to be a bad girl
I got busy in the bathroom at my high school prom
Yeah I used to be a dancer at the local strip club
But now I know my right wing from my wrong
Yeah, yeah
I really used to be a bad girl
I had a threesome with my sister and her boyfriend tom
I know I used to be a real wild child
But now I am a volvo-driving soccer mom
Na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na
I really used to be a bad girl
I got busted for possession of my wizard-shaped bong
I used to love to do the things they tell me not to do
But now Im different--now I sing a new song
I really used to be a bad girl
I got gang-banged in the bathroom at my high school prom
Yes, I used to be a real wild child
But now I am a volvo-driving soccer mom
Na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na na-na

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song performed by Everclear
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Visionary Boy

Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me!
Enough of care and heaviness
The weary lids of life depress,
And doubly blest that gentle heart shall be,
That wooes of poesy the visions bland,
And strays forgetful o'er enchanted land!
Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me!
So spoke, with ardent look, yet eyebrow sad,
When he had passed o'er many a mountain rude,
And many a wild and weary solitude,
'Mid a green vale, a wandering minstrel-lad.
With eyes that shone in softened flame,
With wings and wand, young Fancy came;
And as she touched a trembling lute,
The lone enthusiast stood entranced and mute.
It was a sound that made his soul forego
All thoughts of sadness in a world of woe.
Oh, lend that lute! he cried: Hope, Pity, Love,
Shall listen; and each valley, rock, and grove,
Shall witness, as with deep delight,

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poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Which Bland Existence Has a Bigger Fan Base?

Which bland existence
Has a bigger fan base?
A dollar worth less,
Than half of its value...
Is falling faster as propaganda rises,
To keep lifestyles fantasized.

Lies are blatant...
As those who speak truth,
Are criticized and despised
For trying to correct by...
Eliminating the act of spying.
While religious zealots,
Dance hypocritically from pulpits.
With sermons denouncing demons!
To leave congrgations in hunger.
Driving away in luxury,
Tax free!
On ther backs of those who give!

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Two Flavors

Two women flavors, cherry and vanilla,
describe two types of women, one trangressive,
the other bland, and for a ladykiller,
too boring if call yourself progressive.
Though ice cream flourishes with both these flavors,
in the case of women it is rare
for men to ask from the vanilla favors
associated just with cherries. Ordinaire,
wine can’t compete with wine whose pedigree
is noble, and what is bland cannot compete
with what excites the palate. You can’t flee
these flavors if you happen to love heat.

In an episode of the AMC drama Madmen, the advertising firm whose protagonists form the core of the drama are asked by Playtex to provide a new way of promoting bras. They suggest that the bras should appeal to the two sides of women, epitomized by Jacqueline Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe, representing respectively vanilla and cherry flavors.

8/31/08

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Piccalilli (Revised)

Piccalilli - the pickle that zings with zest
and foretells my royal downfall, a roll
prepared with onion, cheese, egg n'
tomato, spiced liberally with piccalilli

One bite cost my common sense -
knowing full well white rolls make me
ill I ate with relish still; it tastes soooo
wonderful when one like me

Lives in a bland dish desert of safe
condiments in black pepper and coarse
salt - if I felt bad after Prego steaks, I
now adore a crazy piccalilli tang

An extravaganza returns to haunt me in
solitary confinement of official texts, head
throbbing, oh piccalilli, chopped veggies,
cheese and spice, enchanting, piquant

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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Response Seeds no Speech Silver

When twin souls key into each other's glance,
body language guiltfree, guileless, glows,
pulse increases, haemoglobin flows
hearts stamp vis[t]a vision blessed by ‘Chance’.
Interactions focus on advance,
respond to signals sent, scent seeming rose.
Implicit waves mind feels heart feels, seals, knows.
Pheromones exchanged, strange tendril dance
above, beyond, bland handshake circumstance.
Response seeds no speech silver, no doors close,
no circumspection, - two, twinned, juxtapose
their several levels, [t][h]read whole souls’ romance.
Heartbeat appreciation is returned,
deceit, repudiation, ever spurned.

27 January 2007 revised 2 October 2009 robi3_1593_robi3_0000 SXX_LXX
for previous version see below
[t][h]read thread, head, tread, read

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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