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Thread: Poetry Corner

  1. #1
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    Poetry Corner

    Falcon, falcon,
    Do not laugh at me now,
    That I should find my destiny in jail,
    I was higher than you in the heavens, above the earth,
    I was higher than you and the eagle.
    I saw many celestial bodies unknown to you,
    I learned many great secrets;
    I often spoke with the stars,
    I flew as high as the bright sun.
    But the day quickly passed and the next one came,
    And I burned with a rebellious flame.
    I was pursued by the enemies of freedom,
    My brothers were the wind and thunder.
    But once in the dark night of the steppe
    During a fatal storm I became weak
    And since then here I sit like a thief in his chains,
    Like an unfaithful and captured slave.
    Falcon, falcon, when you chance to fly
    Into the limitless and mountainous space -
    Don't forget to give the clouds my greetings,
    Tell all that I shall break my chains,
    That my life in jail is only a twilight nap,
    Only a spectral day-dream.

    Anatoli Zhelezniakov, anarchist sailor.
    "The urge to destroy is also a creative urge." Mikhail Bakunin.


  2. #2
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    Do not go gentle into that good night,
    Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
    Because their words had forked no lightning they
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
    And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
    Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    And you, my father, there on that sad height,
    Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


    Dylan Thomas

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    It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub, That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. They were long and wiry natives of the rugged mountainside, And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride; But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash - They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash: And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong, Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long. And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub: They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.
    It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam, That a polo club existed, called the Cuff and Collar Team. As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success, For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress. They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek, For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week. So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame, For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game; And they took their valets with them - just to give their boots a rub Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.
    Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed, When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road; And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on. For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead, While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead. And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die, Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie.
    Then the captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground, Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around; There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance, So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance, For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side; So he struck at goal - and missed it - then he tumbled off and died.
    By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass, There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass, For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear, For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here." And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around, You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground; You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet, And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet, Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub - He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.







    Sorry I could not get it to post right..


    The Geebung Polo Club..
    A.B.Patterson

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    Shock-headed blackfellow,
    Boy (on a pony).
    Snowflakes are falling
    Gentle and slow,
    Youngster says, "Frying Pan
    What makes it snow?"
    Frying Pan, confident,
    Makes the reply ó
    "Shake 'im big flour bag
    Up in the sky!"
    "What! when there's miles of it?
    Surely that's brag.
    Who is there strong enough
    Shake such a bag?"
    "What parson tellin' you,
    Ole Mister Dodd,
    Tell you in Sunday-School?
    Big feller God!
    "Him drive 'im bullock dray,
    Then thunder go;
    Him shake 'im flour bag ó
    Tumble down snow!"


    Frying Pans Theology..
    A.B.Patterson

  5. #5
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    Giving Potatoes


    STRONG MAN:

    Mashed potatoes cannot hurt you , darling
    Mashed potatoes mean no harm
    I have brought you mashed potatoes
    From my mashed potato farm

    LADY:

    Take away your mashed potatoes
    Leave them in the desert to dry
    Take away your mashed potatoes -
    You look like shepherd's pie

    BRASH MAN:

    A packet of chips, a packet of chips,
    Wrapped in the Daily Mail
    Golden juicy and fried for a week
    In the blubber of the Great White Whale

    LADY:

    Take away your fried potatoes
    Use them to clean your ears
    You can eat your fried potatoes
    With birds-eye frozen tears

    OLD MAN:

    I have borne this baked potato
    O'er the Generation Gap
    Pray accept this baked potato
    Let me lay it in your heated lap.

    LADY:

    Take away your baked potato
    In your frusty musty van
    Take away your baked potato
    You potato-skinned old man

    FRENCHMAN:

    She rejected all potaoes
    For a thousand nights and days
    Till a Frenchman wooed and won her
    With pommes de terre Lyonnaise.

    LADY:

    Oh my corrugated lover
    So creamy and so brown
    Lut us fly across to Lyons
    And lay our tubers down.



    Adrian Mitchell
    The Above Post May Contain Strong Language, Flashing Lights, or Violent Scenes.

  6. #6
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    Recessional

    God of our fathers, known of old,
    Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
    Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
    Dominion over palm and pine—
    Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
    Lest we forget—lest we forget!

    The tumult and the shouting dies;
    The Captains and the Kings depart:
    Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
    An humble and a contrite heart.
    Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
    Lest we forget—lest we forget!

    Far-called, our navies melt away;
    On dune and headland sinks the fire:
    Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
    Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
    Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
    Lest we forget—lest we forget!

    If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
    Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
    Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
    Or lesser breeds without the Law—
    Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
    Lest we forget—lest we forget!

    For heathen heart that puts her trust
    In reeking tube and iron shard,
    All valiant dust that builds on dust,
    And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
    For frantic boast and foolish word—
    Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

    Rudyard Kipling

  7. #7
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    Inspired by an Ausi poem and a red ant bite.

    There were red ants on the hong nam seat last night
    I didnít see them but I sure did feel their bite


    The wife on hearing my painful yelp
    Took it as an urgent call for help


    And came barging through the door
    To see me bent over with my pants upon the floor


    Trying to rid my nether regions
    Of the little biting legions


    Her first reaction
    Was to laugh instead of taking action


    On hearing her mirth the children came at the run
    To see if they could join in the fun


    The parts they saw of me
    Were things that children should never see


    All the ants were eventually located
    And their nest eradicated


    This was no easy task
    As they had spread out over an area quite vast


    The pain of their bites has receded today
    And the marks have almost gone away


    But what is really cruel
    Is that the kids have told all their friends at school


    And they told all of theirs and their parents as well
    So everyone I see now gives me hell


    I am afraid to walk down the street
    For everyone I meet


    Has heard of my predicament
    With lots of gory embellishment


    None of the comments are sympathetic
    Some indeed are quite pathetic


    What they are saying is only to get a rise
    For I canít possibly look that bad in either shape or size


    So my advice to you
    Before you squat upon the loo


    Is to carefully inspect the place
    So you wont have to suffer my pain and serious loss of face.


    By Me

  8. #8
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    Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
    In the forests of the night;
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?


    My favorite verse in all of poetry.

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    This one, the full version, would be one of my desert island choices.


    The infernal Serpent; he it was whose guile,
    Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived
    The mother of mankind, what time his pride
    Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host
    Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring
    To set himself in glory above his peers,
    He trusted to have equalled the Most High,
    If he opposed, and, with ambitious aim
    Against the throne and monarchy of God,
    Raised impious war in Heaven and battle proud,
    With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power
    Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky,
    With hideous ruin and combustion, down
    To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
    In adamantine chains and penal fire,
    Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.
    Nine times the space that measures day and night
    To mortal men, he, with his horrid crew,
    Lay vanquished, rowling in the fiery gulf,
    Confounded, though immortal. But his doom
    Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought
    Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
    Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes,
    That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,
    Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate.
    At once, as far as Angel’s ken, he views
    The dismal situation waste and wild.
    A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
    As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames
    No light; but rather darkness visible
    Served only to discover sights of woe,
    Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
    And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
    That comes to all, but torture without end
    Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
    With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.
    Such place Eternal Justice had prepared
    For those rebellious; here their prison ordained
    In utter darkness, and their portion set,
    As far removed from God and light of Heaven
    As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole.

    Milton

  10. #10
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    Quote Originally Posted by biff View Post
    It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub, That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. They were long and wiry natives of the rugged mountainside, And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride; But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash - They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash: And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong, Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long. And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub: They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.
    It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam, That a polo club existed, called the Cuff and Collar Team. As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success, For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress. They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek, For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week. So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame, For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game; And they took their valets with them - just to give their boots a rub Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.
    Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed, When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road; And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on. For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead, While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead. And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die, Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie.
    Then the captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground, Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around; There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance, So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance, For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side; So he struck at goal - and missed it - then he tumbled off and died.
    By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass, There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass, For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear, For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here." And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around, You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground; You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet, And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet, Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub - He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.







    Sorry I could not get it to post right..


    The Geebung Polo Club..
    A.B.Patterson
    Thanks for that Nice memories.

    I know it off by heart having been given an anthology of Australian poetry when around 6 or 7 ( I can't remember the title, but the name Mildred Fowler springs to mind....maybe the compiler?). Another of my favourites from that book is Clancy of the Overflow, another Banjo Patterson classic. Henry Lawson also featured in that book....one that comes to mind is of course Waltzing Matilda.
    I'm trying desperately to remember the poem about the kid being baptised McGuinness Mcgee....possibly another Banjo poem.

    I still have that book, but it's back home.

  11. #11
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    One of my favourites is the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam. I have quoted the best stanza with great results when chatting up smart women:

    A flask of wine beneath the bough,
    A loaf of bread, a book of verse, and Thou,
    Beside me in the wilderness.
    And the wilderness is Paradise enow.

  12. #12
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    Quote Originally Posted by Maanaam View Post
    Quote Originally Posted by biff View Post
    It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub, That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. They were long and wiry natives of the rugged mountainside, And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride; But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash - They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash: And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong, Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long. And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub: They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.
    It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam, That a polo club existed, called the Cuff and Collar Team. As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success, For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress. They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek, For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week. So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame, For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game; And they took their valets with them - just to give their boots a rub Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.
    Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed, When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road; And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on. For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead, While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead. And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die, Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie.
    Then the captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground, Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around; There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance, So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance, For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side; So he struck at goal - and missed it - then he tumbled off and died.
    By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass, There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass, For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear, For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here." And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around, You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground; You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet, And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet, Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub - He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.







    Sorry I could not get it to post right..


    The Geebung Polo Club..
    A.B.Patterson
    Thanks for that Nice memories.

    I know it off by heart having been given an anthology of Australian poetry when around 6 or 7 ( I can't remember the title, but the name Mildred Fowler springs to mind....maybe the compiler?). Another of my favourites from that book is Clancy of the Overflow, another Banjo Patterson classic. Henry Lawson also featured in that book....one that comes to mind is of course Waltzing Matilda.
    I'm trying desperately to remember the poem about the kid being baptised McGuinness Mcgee....possibly another Banjo poem.

    I still have that book, but it's back home.
    Was it this one?


  13. #13
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    Quote Originally Posted by DrB0b View Post
    Quote Originally Posted by Maanaam View Post
    Quote Originally Posted by biff View Post
    It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub, That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. They were long and wiry natives of the rugged mountainside, And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride; But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash - They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash: And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong, Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long. And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub: They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.
    It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam, That a polo club existed, called the Cuff and Collar Team. As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success, For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress. They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek, For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week. So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame, For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game; And they took their valets with them - just to give their boots a rub Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.
    Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed, When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road; And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on. For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead, While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead. And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die, Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie.
    Then the captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground, Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around; There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance, So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance, For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side; So he struck at goal - and missed it - then he tumbled off and died.
    By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass, There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass, For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear, For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here." And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around, You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground; You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet, And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet, Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub - He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.







    Sorry I could not get it to post right..


    The Geebung Polo Club..
    A.B.Patterson
    Thanks for that Nice memories.

    I know it off by heart having been given an anthology of Australian poetry when around 6 or 7 ( I can't remember the title, but the name Mildred Fowler springs to mind....maybe the compiler?). Another of my favourites from that book is Clancy of the Overflow, another Banjo Patterson classic. Henry Lawson also featured in that book....one that comes to mind is of course Waltzing Matilda.
    I'm trying desperately to remember the poem about the kid being baptised McGuinness Mcgee....possibly another Banjo poem.

    I still have that book, but it's back home.
    Was it this one?

    YES!!!! Thank you!!!

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    Quote Originally Posted by biff View Post
    Shock-headed blackfellow,
    Boy (on a pony).
    Snowflakes are falling
    Gentle and slow,
    Youngster says, "Frying Pan
    What makes it snow?"
    Frying Pan, confident,
    Makes the reply ó
    "Shake 'im big flour bag
    Up in the sky!"
    "What! when there's miles of it?
    Surely that's brag.
    Who is there strong enough
    Shake such a bag?"
    "What parson tellin' you,
    Ole Mister Dodd,
    Tell you in Sunday-School?
    Big feller God!
    "Him drive 'im bullock dray,
    Then thunder go;
    Him shake 'im flour bag ó
    Tumble down snow!"


    Frying Pans Theology..
    A.B.Patterson
    Another oft read from "The Land of the Rainbow Gold".

  15. #15
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    Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,


    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,


    Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,


    And towards our distant rest began to trudge.


    Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,


    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;


    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots


    Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.





    Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling


    Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,


    But someone still was yelling out and stumbling


    And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—


    Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,


    As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.





    In all my dreams before my helpless sight,


    He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.





    If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace


    Behind the wagon that we flung him in,


    And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,


    His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;


    If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood


    Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,


    Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud


    Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—


    My friend, you would not tell with such high zest


    To children ardent for some desperate glory,


    The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est


    Pro patria mori.


    Wilfred Owen

    (Studied at school. Made a big impact)

  16. #16
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    Today I saw a little worm wriggling on its belly
    Perhaps he'd like to come inside and see what's on the telly

    - Spike Milligan

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    edit for mistake

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    Elegy


    Oh destiny of Borges
    to have sailed across the diverse seas of the world
    or across that single and solitary sea of diverse names,
    to have been a part of Edinburgh, of Zurich, of the two Cordobas,
    of Colombia and of Texas,
    to have returned at the end of changing generations
    to the ancient lands of his forebears,
    to Andalucia, to Portugal and to those counties
    where the Saxon warred with the Dane and they mixed their blood,
    to have wandered through the red and tranquil labyrinth of London,
    to have grown old in so many mirrors,
    to have sought in vain the marble gaze of the statues,
    to have questioned lithographs, encyclopedias, atlases,
    to have seen the things that men see,
    death, the sluggish dawn, the plains,
    and the delicate stars,
    and to have seen nothing, or almost nothing
    except the face of a girl from Buenos Aires
    a face that does not want you to remember it.
    Oh destiny of Borges,
    perhaps no stranger than your own.

    -- Jorge Luis Borges

  19. #19
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    Quote Originally Posted by nidhogg
    (Studied at school. Made a big impact)
    I bet it did. Stark imagery.
    I feel some James Joyce coming on.

  20. #20
    Thailand Expat

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    Or Tennyson...I've always like this, especially when in a philosophical mood.

    Flower in a crannied wall
    I pluck you out of the cranny.
    Little flower, if I could understand
    What you are, root and all and all in all,
    I would know what God and Man is.


    About sums it up. Right down to what is a Higgs bosun made of.

  21. #21
    Member
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    Home improvement expert Harold Hill of Harold Hill

    Of do it yourself dexterity and double glazing skill

    Came home one night to find another mans kippers in the grill

    So he sanded off his winkle with his Black + Decker drill ...........

    Ian Dury circa 1979

  22. #22
    Balls to Monty
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    The fucking cops are fucking keen
    To fucking keep it fucking clean
    The fucking chief’s a fucking swine
    Who fucking draws a fucking line
    At fucking fun and fucking games
    The fucking kids he fucking blames
    Are nowehere to be fucking found
    Anywhere in Chickentown
    The fucking scene is fucking sad
    The fucking news is fucking bad
    The fucking weed is fucking turf
    The fucking speed is fucking surf
    The fucking folks are fucking daft
    Don’t make me fucking laugh
    It fucking hurts to look around
    Everywhere in Chickentown
    The fucking train is fucking late
    You fucking wait you fucking wait
    You’re fucking lost and fucking found
    Stuck in fucking Chickentown
    The fucking view is fucking vile
    For fucking miles and fucking miles
    The fucking babies fucking cry
    The fucking flowers fucking die
    The fucking food is fucking muck
    The fucking drains are fucking fucked
    The colour scheme is fucking brown
    Everywhere in Chickentown
    The fucking pubs are fucking dull
    The fucking clubs are fucking full
    Of fucking girls and fucking guys
    With fucking murder in Their eyes
    A fucking bloke is fucking stabbed
    Waiting for a fucking cab
    You fucking stay at fucking home
    The fucking neighbors fucking moan
    Keep The fucking racket down
    This is fucking Chickentown
    The fucking train is fucking late
    You fucking wait you fucking wait
    You’re fucking lost and fucking found
    Stuck in fucking Chickentown
    The fucking pies are fucking old
    The fucking chips are fucking cold
    The fucking beer is fucking flat
    The fucking flats have fucking rats
    The fucking clocks are fucking wrong
    The fucking days are fucking long
    It fucking gets you fucking down
    Evidently Chickentown


    - John Cooper Clarke

  23. #23
    Custom user Neverna's Avatar
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    My old man's a white old man
    And my old mother's black.
    If ever I cursed my white old man
    I take my curses back.
    If ever I cursed my black old mother
    And wished she were in hell,
    I'm sorry for that evil wish
    And now I wish her well
    My old man died in a fine big house.
    My ma died in a shack.
    I wonder where I'm going to die,
    Being neither white nor black?


    Langston Hughes

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