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Bite Our Style (Interlude)

Me and Timbaland we make you wanna bite our style (fa la la la la)
Me and Timbaland we make you wanna bite our style (EEEEE fa la la la la)
Me and Timbaland we make you wanna bite our style (fa la la la la)
Me and Timbaland we make you wanna bite our style
Me and Timbaland our style's so superb have you heard have you heard
Me and Timbaland our style's so superb have you heard have you heard
Me and Timbaland our style's so superb (say what) have you heard the word?

song performed by Missy Elliott
Added by Lucian Velea
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As I Sat Alone By Blue Ontario's Shores

AS I sat alone, by blue Ontario's shore,
As I mused of these mighty days, and of peace return'd, and the dead
that return no more,
A Phantom, gigantic, superb, with stern visage, accosted me;
Chant me the poem, it said, that comes from the soul of America--
chant me the carol of victory;
And strike up the marches of Libertad--marches more powerful yet;
And sing me before you go, the song of the throes of Democracy.

(Democracy--the destin'd conqueror--yet treacherous lip-smiles
everywhere,
And Death and infidelity at every step.)

A Nation announcing itself,
I myself make the only growth by which I can be appreciated, 10
I reject none, accept all, then reproduce all in my own forms.

A breed whose proof is in time and deeds;
What we are, we are--nativity is answer enough to objections;

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poem by Walt Whitman
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Politician - Parody after Stephen SPENDER - Airman

Politician

He will watch the poll with no indifferent eye,
most pitifully, -
not on those voters who once cheered him, now
will strain his brow.
Weapons men use, mud-slinging, smear, tapped telephone,
all these he’s known.

This aristocrat, superb, until instinct
with death close-linked,
had faced the amorphous crowd, almost had won
war on the sun, ...
til now, ... like Icarus mid-ocean drowned,
his hopes unfound.

[c] Jonathan Robin parody written 7 August 1991 after Stephen SPENDER 1909_1995 - Airman

Airman

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Mannahatta

I WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name!

Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly,
musical, self-sufficient;
I see that the word of my city is that word up there,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with
tall and wonderful spires,
Rich, hemm'd thick all around with sailships and steamships--an
island sixteen miles long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets--high growths of iron, slender, strong,
light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies;
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining
islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the
ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model'd; 10
The down-town streets, the jobbers' houses of business--the houses of
business of the ship-merchants, and money-brokers--the river-
streets;

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poem by Walt Whitman
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From Pent-up Aching Rivers

FROM pent-up, aching rivers;
From that of myself, without which I were nothing;
From what I am determin'd to make illustrious, even if I stand sole
among men;
From my own voice resonant--singing the phallus,
Singing the song of procreation,
Singing the need of superb children, and therein superb grown people,
Singing the muscular urge and the blending,
Singing the bedfellow's song, (O resistless yearning!
O for any and each, the body correlative attracting!
O for you, whoever you are, your correlative body! O it, more than
all else, you delighting!) 10
--From the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day;
From native moments--from bashful pains--singing them;
Singing something yet unfound, though I have diligently sought it,
many a long year;
Singing the true song of the Soul, fitful, at random;
Singing what, to the Soul, entirely redeem'd her, the faithful one,
even the prostitute, who detain'd me when I went to the city;
Singing the song of prostitutes;

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poem by Walt Whitman
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So Long

TO conclude--I announce what comes after me;
I announce mightier offspring, orators, days, and then, for the
present, depart.

I remember I said, before my leaves sprang at all,
I would raise my voice jocund and strong, with reference to
consummations.

When America does what was promis'd,
When there are plentiful athletic bards, inland and seaboard,
When through These States walk a hundred millions of superb persons,
When the rest part away for superb persons, and contribute to them,
When breeds of the most perfect mothers denote America,
Then to me and mine our due fruition. 10

I have press'd through in my own right,
I have sung the Body and the Soul--War and Peace have I sung,
And the songs of Life and of Birth--and shown that there are many
births:
I have offer'd my style to everyone--I have journey'd with confident

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poem by Walt Whitman
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Winter Born and Live

Some people enter the world
to indigo skies,
the sun beams
on their blessed souls
season after season.
Never a day of
storms or showers form,
in their world
there are no winters.
Their grin comes
without expense,
their soul
without pause flourishes.
Groundhog never appears
to see his shadow,
for spring is
constantly assured.
Nothing did they do
to improve or disparage
their springtime birth.

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poem by Sandra Dodd
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The Cageing Of Ares

[Iliad, v. V. 385--Dedicated to the Council at The Hague.]

How big of breast our Mother Gaea laughed
At sight of her boy Giants on the leap
Each over other as they neighboured home,
Fronting the day's descent across green slopes,
And up fired mountain crags their shadows danced.
Close with them in their fun, she scarce could guess,
Though these two billowy urchins reeked of craft,
It signalled some adventurous master-trick
To set Olympians buzzing in debate,
Lest it might be their godhead undermined,
The Tyranny menaced. Ephialtes high
On shoulders of his brother Otos waved
For the bull-bellowings given to grand good news,
Compact, complexioned in his gleeful roar
While Otos aped the prisoner's wrists and knees,
With doleful sniffs between recurrent howls;
Till Gaea's lap receiving them, they stretched,
And both upon her bosom shaken to speech,

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poem by George Meredith
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The Ghost - Book IV

Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,

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poem by Charles Churchill
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The Swan

Without sound, under the mirror of the lake deep and calm,
The swan hunts the waves with its large webbed feet
And glides. Its downy sides resemble
April snow melting in the sun;
But, firm and of matt white, vibrant in the zephyr breeze,
Its large wings spread just like a sailing boat.
He raises his beautiful neck above the reeds,
Diving, proceeding rising over the waters,
Its gracious curve like a profile of Acanthus,
And hides his black beak in his sparkling throat.
Soon along the pines, staying in the shade and peace,
He glides, and, letting the dense grass
Drag behind him like a comet's tail,
He walks with a stately and languishing allure;
The grotto, where the poet listens drawn by his senses
And by waters evoking tears of an eternal absence,
Pleases him: he prowls there; a willow leaf
Falling in silence brushing his shoulders;
Soon, he takes to the open air, and, far from the dark wood,
Superb, striking toward the sky,

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poem by Sully Prudhomme, translated by David Paley
Added by Dan Costinaş
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