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The Parrot

In painted plumes superbly dress'd,
A native of the gorgeous east,
By many a billow toss'd;
Poll gains at length the British shore,
Part of the captain's precious store,
A present to his toast.

Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd,
To teach him now then a word,
As Poll can master it;
But 'tis her own important charge,
To qualify him more at large,
And make him quite a wit.

Sweet Poll! his doting mistress cries,
Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies,
And calls aloud for sack.
She next instructs him in the kiss;
'Tis now a little one, like Miss,
And now a hearty smack.

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poem by William Cowper
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I Have A Poll Parrot

I have a Poll parrot,
And Poll is my doll,
And my nurse is Polly,
And my sister Poll.
‘Polly!’ cried Polly,
‘Don't tear Polly, dolly’ -
While soft-hearted Poll
Trembled for the doll.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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How Polly Paid For Her Keep

Do I know Polly Brown? Do I know her? Why,
damme,
You might as well ask if I know my own name?
It's a wonder you never heard tell of old Sammy,
Her father, my mate in the Crackenback claim.

He asks if I know little Poll! Why, I nursed her
As often, I reckon as old Mother Brown
When they lived at the “Flats,” and old Sam
went a burster
In Chinaman's Gully, and dropped every crown.

My golden-haired mate, ever brimful of folly
And childish conceit, and yet ready to rest
Contented beside me, 'twas I who taught Polly
To handle four horses along with the best.

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poem by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
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Jigsaw

Here we hear that a perch stands for fish or for pole, -
though this pole can be twenty four feet long or square –
or a pole upon which
a kingfisher can perch
before diving to fish for his dinner dish.

Don’t consider it rude if we add that a rood
is the same as a perch, or a pole or a rod,
and a rood is a Cross, so please don’t become cross
as we must get across that this cross can be square, -
and this square cross can lengthwise be measured – so there!

A pole, too, is a fish, somewhat flounderish
with fine fins which swish and a face like a dish.
Thus kingfisher must fish for his dish, and that dish is a dish,
so lets face it in anguish, - a dish is a dish is a fish!

As a face is a head, and a head is a poll
which tells who is ahead, or shows what each prole
thought of what someone said:

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Bumboat Woman's Story

I'm old, my dears, and shrivelled with age, and work, and grief,
My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been drawn by Time, the Thief!
For terrible sights I've seen, and dangers great I've run -
I'm nearly seventy now, and my work is almost done!

Ah! I've been young in my time, and I've played the deuce with men!
I'm speaking of ten years past - I was barely sixty then:
My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my eyes were large and sweet,
POLL PINEAPPLE'S eyes were the standing toast of the Royal Fleet!

A bumboat woman was I, and I faithfully served the ships
With apples and cakes, and fowls, and beer, and halfpenny dips,
And beef for the generous mess, where the officers dine at nights,
And fine fresh peppermint drops for the rollicking midshipmites.

Of all the kind commanders who anchored in Portsmouth Bay,
By far the sweetest of all was kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE.'
LIEUTENANT BELAYE commanded the gunboat HOT CROSS BUN,
She was seven and thirty feet in length, and she carried a gun.

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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Ultimate Love

Never seen the Mona Lisa
Never walked across the moon
Never been to Casa Blanca
But I've been to Cancun
I'll never make the Fortune 500
On what I get paid
Please don't pity me,
'Cause I've got everything I need
Life don't get no better
I could live forever and never top this
Oh, I'm in poll position
Got a sweet suspicion there ain't nothin'
I've missed
Baby look at us
Standing in the middle of this ultimate love
When I was seventeen I shook
Joe Namath's hand
Once I won karaoke singin' "Piano Man"
One time in Vegas I won me 700 bucks
That's all real cool stuff but it don't

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song performed by Phil Vassar
Added by Lucian Velea
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Things Are Meant To Be

You've got to free it from your mind,
And let things go.
You've got to free this from your mind,
All the time.
You've got to free it from your mind,
To let things go...
Or,
You'll be left behind.

You've got to free it from your mind,
Everything is meant.
You've got to free it from your mind,
You can circumvent events.
You've got to free this from your mind,
All the time...
Because things are meant to be!

There is a freedom knowing,
Things are meant to be.
No need to poll a voter.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Reply to the Above, by F.W.F.

"Te quoque vatem dicunt pastores."—VIRGIL.

O Maxwell, if by reason’s strength
And studying of Babbage,
You have transformed yourself at length
Into a mental cabbage;
And if I've proved myself a lark
At morn and blushing even,
By soaring like a music-spark
Thro’ sapphire fields of Heaven,

Our diverse fates are now reversed
By strange metempsychosis,
Into a cabbage I have burst
And scorn poetic posies;
But you a lark with twinkling wings
O’er violet-banks are soaring;
Your voice the dewy rose-cloud rings
While Statics me are boring.

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poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Sitting On A Fence

Sitting on a fence is a man who sees no sense in fighting
Sitting on a fence is a man who sees no sense at all
Sitting on a fence is a man who strokes his twenty beards
Sitting on a fence is a man who drink real ale
But the real problem with this man
Is he says he cant when he can
Hed rather not get his hands dirty
Hell still be there when hes thirty
I told myself to keep my mouth shut
But I still end up saying if and but
I lied to myself right from the start
And Ive just worked out that Im falling apart
Sitting on a fence
Sitting on a fence is a man who looks up to his guardian
Sitting on a fence is a man who swings from poll to poll
Sitting on a fence is a man who sees both sides of both sides
Sitting on a fence is a man who looks down on opinion
But the real problem with this man
Is he says he cant when he can
Hes rather not get his hands dirty

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song performed by Housemartins
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Wat Tyler - Act II

ACT II.

SCENE— BLACKHEATH.

TYLER, HOB, &c.

SONG.

' When Adam delv'd, and Eve span,
' Who was then the gentleman?'

Wretched is the infant's lot,
Born within the straw-roof'd cot!
Be he generous, wise, or brave,
He must only be a slave.
Long, long labour, little rest,
Still to toil to be oppress'd;
Drain'd by taxes of his store,
Punish'd next for being poor;

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poem by Robert Southey
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