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Quotes about lank

The Baffled Grumbler

Whene'er I poke
Sarcastic joke
Replete with malice spiteful,
The people vile
Politely smile
And vote me quite delightful!
Now, when a wight
Sits up all night
Ill-natured jokes devising,
And all his wiles
Are met with smiles,
It's hard, there's no disguising!
Oh, don't the days seem lank and long
When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,
And isn't your life extremely flat
With nothing whatever to grumble at!

When German bands,
From music stands
Play Wagner imperFECTly -

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Hold Hard, These Ancient Minutes In the Cuckoo's Month

Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month,
Under the lank, fourth folly on Glamorgan's hill,
As the green blooms ride upward, to the drive of time;
Time, in a folly's rider, like a county man
Over the vault of ridings with his hound at heel,
Drives forth my men, my children, from the hanging south.

Country, your sport is summer, and December's pools
By crane and water-tower by the seedy trees
Lie this fifth month unstaked, and the birds have flown;
Holy hard, my country children in the world if tales,
The greenwood dying as the deer fall in their tracks,
The first and steepled season, to the summer's game.

And now the horns of England, in the sound of shape,
Summon your snowy horsemen, and the four-stringed hill,
Over the sea-gut loudening, sets a rock alive;
Hurdles and guns and railings, as the boulders heave,
Crack like a spring in vice, bone breaking April,
Spill the lank folly's hunter and the hard-held hope.

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Donica - A Ballad

Author Note: In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unfounded depth, the water black and the fish therein
very distateful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, which
foreshew either the death of the Governor, or some prime officer
belonging to the place; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape of
an harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water.

It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walked
in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but that
she was still alive; for she did both speak and eat, though very
sparingly; only she had a deep paleness on her countenance, which was
the only sign of death. At length a Magician coming by where she was
then in the company of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he
said, "fair Maids, why keep you company with the dead Virgin whom you
suppose to be alive?" when taking away the magic charm which was tied
under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion.

The following Ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be found
in the notes to The Hierarchies of the blessed Angels; a Poem by Thomas
Heywood, printed in folio by Adam Islip, 1635.

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Gisli: The Chieftain

To the Goddess Lada prayed
Gisli, holding high his spear
Bound with buds of spring, and laughed
All his heart to Lada's ear.

Damp his yellow beard with mead,
Loud the harps clang'd thro the day;
With bruised breasts triumphant rode
Gisli's galleys in the bay.

Bards sang in the banquet hall,
Set in loud verse Gisli's fame,
On their lips the war gods laid
Fire to chaunt their warrior's name.

To the Love-queen Gisli pray'd,
Buds upon his tall spear's tip;
Laughter in his broad blue eyes,
Laughter on his bearded lip.

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The American Race is marked by a brown complexion; long, black, lank hair; and deficient beard.

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He Is My Man

He has been master of the house,
Whilst I maimed his body in this blouse.
He is lank-limbed as a man,
I am short and stubby as a can.
My can is like a cup which pours by itself,
With hands in the pockets of the elf
Who practices magic once again -
My father spanked me as a child at ten.

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To be lean is beauty.

The thin long plait over long nape,
The long jaw matching with low chin,
The lean arms in sleeveless blouse,
The cylindrical waist baring navel,
How beautifully you are lank!
No matter you have no breasts to name.
No matter I have seen your face
In a stone through distance only.
The lean are my favorite.
I was born of fatty mother.
18.03.2001, Pmdi

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Hilaire Belloc

Talking (and Singing) of the Nordic Man

I

Behold, my child, the Nordic man,
And be as like him, as you can;
His legs are long, his mind is slow,
His hair is lank and made of tow.


II

And here we have the Alpine Race:
Oh! What a broad and foolish face!
His skin is of a dirty yellow.
He is a most unpleasant fellow.


III

The most degraded of them all
Mediterranean we call.

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A Tree Was Talking

He returned empty hands.
Death was casually running around
on charred bodies.

Was lank poetry of a ruthless god.
The house was on fire after
selling its children. The days were becoming
longer than life.

Casus belli, whom do you want to name
the culprit, when everybody was fighting
on a new front? We talk of truth in small
tablets, in small moments.

The hills were burning, one after the other.
Barefoot walking, all mind, mother earth
don’t go to sleep.

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Earth, To You I Mourn

Friend and foe
Blood and tears i pour.

Long did thee decay in waste,
Twigs and shells in funeral of fate.

Out were my heart
In darkness and no light.

Lost we in this spherical ditch,
Funeral of sadness and anguish,
Let me, unconsoled and let me wish.

Let me bathe myself in tears,
No more can i bear these fears.

Clotheth in nothing but sack
Oh! am I now lank.

Cry out in quail,

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