Quotes about onion
Green Onion Shampoo
The baby-sitter's nuts! Please listen Mom, it's true!
Last night she washed my hair with Green Onion Shampoo!
Green Onion Shampoo! Green Onion Shampoo!
It smells worse than bad, and when you get through,
Your poor scalp will burn, your eyes will burn too!
Who ever heard of Green Onion Shampoo?
Why did she do that? She has a loose screw!
It's made in Cleveland! This stuff is brand new!
I don't understand! God, what did I do?
To ever deserve Green Onion Shampoo?
Promise to fire her! And trust when I say...
If you rehire her... I must run away!
poem by ToddMichael St. Pierre
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Natural Artistry
Natural artistry
The onion domes against the sky
by morning light blush rosily.
Before the sun has risen high.
Resplendent in his majesty.
He paints the domes with gleaming gold.
Without finesse but lavishly.
His whole approach is overbold.
I prefer delicacy..
The pastel shades that I could see
before the blazing sun applied
his crude form of artistry
and hid the beauty from my eyes.
With coats of gold he misapplied,
that he believes mistakenly.
Will be pleasing to the eyes
[...] Read more
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Glass Onion
I told you about strawberry fields
You know the place where nothing is real
Well here's another place you can go
Where everything flows.
Looking through the bent backed tulips
To see how the other half live
Looking through a glass onion.
I told you about the walrus and me-man
You know that we're as close as can be-man
Well here's another clue for you all
The walrus was paul.
Standing on the cast iron shore-yeah
Lady madonna trying to make ends meet-yeah
Looking through a glass onion.
I told you about the fool on the hill
I tell you man he living there still
Well here's another place you can be
Listen to me.
Fixing a hole in the ocean
Trying to make a dove-tail joint-yeah
[...] Read more
song performed by Beatles
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Monkey & The Onion
See the monkey peel the onion
See the monkey cry
He can feel his tears are flowin
But he dont know why
He continues peeling faster
'til the onion is no more
Now at last his cryins over
But all he had is gone
Whatever for
You and I are always chasing
Wild ambitions and far off dreams
As we run in all directions
Nothings quite the joy it seems
If I tell you that I love you
Dont ask how much
And dont ask why
Have no doubt and ask no questions
Just believe its not a lie
Never take my love for granted
But never put it to the test
[...] Read more
song performed by 10 Cc
Added by Lucian Velea
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Applauding A Boo
Vegetables on the chopping board
Inaugurate a television recital..
I chop chop
Recital going on
The lady joins me harmoniously
Chopping, chopping, chopping
Chopping the brinjal, raga
Potato, tala, onion, lyric
Her vocal chords strain to wriggle
The accompaniments, onion shed laughing tears
Dissonant, discordant, cacophony
Screaches to countless decibels
I'm chopping lady's finger
My finger weeps red
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Onions Onions! Enjoy onions!
Every life is here,
Is like onion
Some are good some are bad,
Some are white,
Some are red,
They are alike when are peeled!
But some are chopped,
Some are cooked,
Some are eaten raw,
Some are rotten
some are planted,
To yield more onions!
Look this world ls full of opinion,
world filled with divine Onion,
no one believes in soul _God Union,
THOSE WHO DARE NOT TO DIVE INTO OCEAN,
EVER sit on shore
and shout IN SUSPICION!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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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
[...] Read more
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Spreading Haddock
First pre-heat the oven at 350degrees.
Take approximately 3lbs of fresh haddock,
Season it..
With a compound seasoning of salt
Oregano, pepper/red pepper, garlic powder,
Onion powder, and celery salt.
Gently rub these ingredients into the awaiting haddock!
One baking dish is needed.
Pour one full cup of water/maybe more into dish.
Sprinkle Basil onto the water. YES...B-A-S-I-L.!
Lay that haddock down.
If you have bread crumbs...
Now is the opportunity to crumb this haddock!
Get a stick of butter.
Slice thin butter slices...
And place them on that haddock.
Final touch before slipping this into the oven...
Toss some parsley...on the haddock!
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Bishop Orders His Tomb
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews - sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well--
She, men would have to be your mother once,
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!
What's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
And as she died so must we die ourselves,
And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:
--Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning
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The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Ssaint Praxed's Church, Rome
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews--sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well--
She, men would have to be your mother once,
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!
What's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
And as she died so must we die ourselves,
And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
Do I live, am I dead?' Peace, peace seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:
--Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning
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