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If you talk to the blacksmith you'll get hit by sparks.

Kurdish proverbs
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Book Of The Duchesse

THE PROEM

I have gret wonder, be this lighte,
How that I live, for day ne nighte
I may nat slepe wel nigh noght,
I have so many an ydel thoght
Purely for defaute of slepe
That, by my trouthe, I take no kepe
Of no-thing, how hit cometh or goth,
Ne me nis no-thing leef nor loth.
Al is y-liche good to me --
Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be --
For I have feling in no-thinge,
But, as it were, a mased thing,
Alway in point to falle a-doun;
For sorwful imaginacioun
Is alway hoolly in my minde.
And wel ye wite, agaynes kynde
Hit were to liven in this wyse;
For nature wolde nat suffyse
To noon erthely creature
Not longe tyme to endure
Withoute slepe, and been in sorwe;
And I ne may, ne night ne morwe,
Slepe; and thus melancolye
And dreed I have for to dye,
Defaute of slepe and hevinesse
Hath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse,
That I have lost al lustihede.
Suche fantasies ben in myn hede
So I not what is best to do.
But men myght axe me, why soo
I may not slepe, and what me is?
But natheles, who aske this
Leseth his asking trewely.
My-selven can not telle why
The sooth; but trewely, as I gesse,
I holde hit be a siknesse
That I have suffred this eight yere,
And yet my bote is never the nere;
For ther is phisicien but oon,
That may me hele; but that is doon.
Passe we over until eft;
That wil not be, moot nede be left;
Our first matere is good to kepe.
So whan I saw I might not slepe,
Til now late, this other night,
Upon my bedde I sat upright
And bad oon reche me a book,
A romaunce, and he hit me took

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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Cleanness

Clannesse who so kyndly cowþe comende
& rekken vp alle þe resounz þat ho by ri3t askez,
Fayre formez my3t he fynde in for[þ]ering his speche
& in þe contrare kark & combraunce huge.
For wonder wroth is þe Wy3þat wro3t alle þinges
Wyth þe freke þat in fylþe fol3es Hym after,
As renkez of relygioun þat reden & syngen
& aprochen to hys presens & prestez arn called;
Thay teen vnto his temmple & temen to hym seluen,
Reken with reuerence þay rychen His auter;
Þay hondel þer his aune body & vsen hit boþe.
If þay in clannes be clos þay cleche gret mede;
Bot if þay conterfete crafte & cortaysye wont,
As be honest vtwyth & inwith alle fylþez,
Þen ar þay synful hemself & sulped altogeder
Boþe God & His gere, & hym to greme cachen.
He is so clene in His courte, þe Kyng þat al weldez,
& honeste in His housholde & hagherlych serued
With angelez enourled in alle þat is clene,
Boþ withine & withouten in wedez ful bry3t;
Nif he nere scoymus & skyg & non scaþe louied,
Hit were a meruayl to much, hit mo3t not falle.
Kryst kydde hit Hymself in a carp onez,
Þeras He heuened a3t happez & hy3t hem her medez.
Me mynez on one amonge oþer, as Maþew recordez,
Þat þus clanness vnclosez a ful cler speche:
Þe haþel clene of his hert hapenez ful fayre,
For he schal loke on oure Lorde with a bone chere';
As so saytz, to þat sy3t seche schal he neuer
Þat any vnclannesse hatz on, auwhere abowte;
For He þat flemus vch fylþe fer fro His hert
May not byde þat burre þat hit His body ne3en.
Forþy hy3not to heuen in haterez totorne,
Ne in þe harlatez hod, & handez vnwaschen.
For what vrþly haþel þat hy3honour haldez
Wolde lyke if a ladde com lyþerly attyred,
When he were sette solempnely in a sete ryche,
Abof dukez on dece, with dayntys serued?
Þen þe harlot with haste helded to þe table,
With rent cokrez at þe kne & his clutte traschez,
& his tabarde totorne, & his totez oute,
Oþer ani on of alle þyse, he schulde be halden vtter,
With mony blame ful bygge, a boffet peraunter,
Hurled to þe halle dore & harde þeroute schowued,
& be forboden þat bor3e to bowe þider neuer,
On payne of enprysonment & puttyng in stokkez;
& þus schal he be schent for his schrowde feble,
Þa3neuer in talle ne in tuch he trespas more.
& if vnwelcum he were to a worþlych prynce,
3et hym is þe hy3e Kyng harder in her euen;

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Steamheaters

She wants a love...
She can take into her arms.
Hold her with her charms.
And sing love songs,
To allure
And captivate!
Heating...
Without setting off the alarm!

He wants a love...
No other one has had.
When it is 'his' booty...
He likes it slow not fast!
And he's glad no one has had,
To touch his booty's ass!
If that has to happen,
He knew he would be sad!

And...
'What' they want...
Maybe a bit too soon.
They need more memory moments.
Before beginning to cast eyes on that 'fullmoon'!
As they lay naked on the basement floor...
Sighing and grinding in lovebird swoons!

'WHAT? '

Steamheaters drip...
Just 'getting it'!
They both are wet,
From the basement water!

Steamheaters kiss...
With sexiness.
He sucked her tits,
'Til her husband caught her,
With his best friend...
'getin' it! '

'Uh...
For clarification,
Will you say that again, please? '

You want it sung?

'No,
I just want it heard.
I may have misunderstood!
What I thought your blurted,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Pillage Hangman - Parody LONGFELLOW - The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The Smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can
And looks the whole world in the face
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church
and sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach.
He hears his daughter's voice
singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, -rejoicing, -sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

PART THE FIRST

I

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Hit Me With A Rock

When I was a little boy
(when I was just a boy)
And my mother would call my name
(when I was just a boy)
Shed say I had to be in the house by seven
(when I was just a boy)
But Id stay out late at night
(when I was just a boy)
And when Id finally get back in
Oh, I know shed hit me, shed hit me
Shed sit me on her knees and whip me
Oh, shed hit me with a rock
Shed whip me with a rock, oh baby
Shed hit me (hit me with a rock)
Shed hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me
(hit me with a rock)
And when I was grown to be a man
(grown to be a man)
The minute the boss would call my name
(grown to be a man)
And say I had to be in the office by seven
(grown to be a man)
Im a constipated man
(grown to be a man)
And when Id finally get back in
Oh, my bossd hit me, hed hit me
Hed tie me to a chair and whip me
Oh hed hit me with a rock
Hed whip me with a rock, oh baby
Hed hit me (hit me with a rock)
Hed hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me
(hit me with a rock)
When I was grown to be president
(was the president)
The minute the congressd call my name
(was the president)
And said some papers had to be signed by thursday
(had to be signed by thursday)
Id fly away to pakistan
(was the president)
And the second that Id get back home
Oh, I know theyd hit me, theyd hit me
With leather and chains theyd whip me
Oh, theyd hit me with a rock
Theyd whip me with a rock, oh baby
Theyd hit me. (hit me with a rock)
Theyd hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me
(hit me with a rock)
Hit me, hit me, hit me
(hit me with a rock)

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song performed by Weird Al Yankovic
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Avowyng of Arthur

He that made us on the mulde,
And fair fourmet the folde,
Atte His will, as He wold,
The see and the sande,
Giffe hom joy that will here
Of dughti men and of dere,
Of haldurs that before us were,
That lifd in this londe.
One was Arther the Kinge,
Wythowtun any letting;
Wyth him was mony lordinge
Hardi of honde.
Wice and war ofte thay were,
Bold undur banere,
And wighte weppuns wold were,
And stifly wold stond.

This is no fantum ne no fabull;
Ye wote wele of the Rowun Tabull,
Of prest men and priveabull,
Was holdun in prise:
Chevetan of chivalry,
Kyndenesse and curtesy,
Hunting full warly,
As wayt men and wise.
To the forest thay fare
To hunte atte buk and atte bare,
To the herte and to the hare,
That bredus in the rise.
The King atte Carlele he lay;
The hunter cummys on a day -
Sayd, 'Sir, ther walkes in my way
A well grim gryse.
'He is a balefull bare -
Seche on segh I nevyr are:
He hase wroghte me mycull care
And hurte of my howundes,
Slayn hom downe slely
Wyth feghting full furcely.
Wasse ther none so hardi
Durste bide in his bandus.
On him spild I my spere
And mycull of my nothir gere.
Ther moue no dintus him dere,
Ne wurche him no wowundes.
He is masly made -
All offellus that he bade.
Ther is no bulle so brade
That in frith foundes.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Drivin With Your Eyes Closed

I met a frenchman in a field last night
He was out there with an easel,
Painting carnival light
He said, I used to paint the princess;
I used to paint the frogs
Now I paint mustaches on dangerous dogs
He said, sometimes its a country;
Sometimes its a girl
You, everybody got to have a purpose
In this world
You yankees are so silly about matters of
The heart
Dont you know that women are the only
Works of art
Youre drivin with your eyes closed
Youre drivin with your eyes closed
Youre drivin with your eyes closed
Youre gonna hit somethin
But thats the way it goes
Some guys were born to rimbaud
Some guys breathe baudelaire
Some guys just got to go and put
Their rockets everywhere
You can breed em by the thousands;
You can trick and you can train
Just look at all those poor dogs that are
Dragged down bu the seine
How many arrows must I shoot into the
Blue?
Ah, you little maniac, Im crazy over you
Before the dearth of lovers and
The punishment of pride
Lets go scrape out on the terrazzo
Its just to hot outside
Youre drivin with your eyes closed
Youre drivin with your eyes closed
Youre drivin with your eyes closed
Youre gonna hit somethin
But thats the way it goes
Talk talk, talk and talk
Talk talk, sweet talk
Talk talk, tough talk
Talk talk, dirty talk
Talk talk, walk and talk
Talk talk, big talk
Kiss kiss, kiss
Talk talk, talk and talk
Talk talk, smooth talk
Talk talk, body talk
Talk talk, back talk

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song performed by Don Henley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Patience

Pacience is a poynt, þa33e,
& quo for þro may no3t þole, þe þikker he sufferes.
&Thorn;en is better to abyde þe bur vmbestoundes
&Thorn;en ay þrow forth my þro, þa33e masse,
How Mathew melede þat his Mayster His meyny con teche.
A3t happes He hem hy3t & vcheon a mede,
Sunderlupes, for hit dissert, vpon a ser wyse:
Thay arn happen þat han in hert pouerte,
For hores is þe heuen-ryche to holde for euer;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat haunte mekenesse,
For þay schal welde þis worlde & alle her wylle haue;
Thay ar happen also þat for her harme wepes,
For þay schal comfort encroche in kythes ful mony;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat hungeres after ry3t,
For þay schal frely be refete ful of alle gode;
Thay ar happen also þat han in hert rauþe,
For mercy in alle maneres her mede schal worþe;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat arn of hert clene,
For þay her Sauyour in sete schal se with her y3en;
Thay ar happen also þat halden her pese,
For þay þe gracious Godes sunes schal godly be called;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat con her hert stere,
For hores is þe heuen-ryche, as I er sayde.
These arn þe happes alle a3t þat vus bihy3t weren,
If we þyse ladyes wolde lof in lyknyng of þewes:
Dame Pouert, Dame Pitee, Dame Penaunce þe þrydde,
Dame Mekenesse, Dame Mercy, & miry Clannesse,
& þenne Dame Pes, & Pacyence put in þerafter.
He were happen þat hade one; alle were þe better.
Bot [s]yn I am put to a poynt þat pouerte hatte,
I schal me poruay pacyence & play me with boþe,
For in þe tyxte þere þyse two arn in teme layde,
Hit arn fettled in on forme, þe forme & þe laste,
& by quest of her quoyntyse enquylen on mede.
& als, in myn vpynyoun, hit arn of on kynde:
For þeras pouert hir proferes ho nyl be put vtter,
Bot lenge wheresoeuer hir lyst, lyke oþer greme;
& þereas pouert enpresses, þa33tloker hit lyke & her lotes prayse,
&Thorn;enne wyþer wyth & be wroth & þe wers haue.
3if me be dy3t a destyne due to haue,
What dowes me þe dedayn, oþer dispit make?
Oþer 3if my lege lorde lyst on lyue me to bidde
Oþer to ryde oþer to renne to Rome in his ernde,
What grayþed me þe grychchyng bot grame more seche?
Much 3if he me ne made, maugref my chekes,
& þenne þrat moste I þole & vnþonk to mede,
&Thorn;e had bowed to his bode bongre my hyure.
Did not Jonas in Jude suche jape sumwhyle?
To sette hym to sewrte, vnsounde he hym feches.
Wyl 3e tary a lyttel tyne & tent me a whyle,

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Mama Talk To Your Daughter

Talk to your daughter
(J B Lenoir)
Mama, mama please talk to your daughter bout me
Mama, mama please talk to your daughter bout me
She made me love her and I aint gonna leave her be
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
She made me love her and I aint gonna leave her be
I aint gonna stand no quitting and she wont have me around
I aint gonna stand no quitting and she wont have me around
If she got me a ride, shed be six feet in the ground
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
She made me love her and I aint gonna leave her be
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
You should talk to your daughter (talk, talk)
She made me love her and I aint gonna leave her be

song performed by Robert Palmer
Added by Lucian Velea
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Dont Talk To Strangers

When you were just a young girl and still in school
How come you never learned the golden rule
Dont talk to strange men, dont be a fool
Im hearing stories, I dont think thats cool
Why dont you tell me, someone is loving you
Cause youre my girl, some say its no longer true
Youre seeing some slick continental dude
Im begging you, please
Dont talk to strangers, baby dont you talk
Dont talk to strangers, you know hell only use you up
Dont talk, dont talk, dont talk,
Dont talk, dont talk to him
Nobody, talk, nobody, ever told you, dont talk
Now tell me, hows life in the big city
I hear the competitions tough, baby thats a pity
And every mans an actor, every girl is pretty
I dont like whats getting back to me
Now whos this, don juan Ive been hearing of
Love hurts when only ones in love
Did you fall at first sight or did you need a shove
Im begging you, please
Dont talk to strangers, baby dont you talk
Dont talk to strangers, you know hell only use you up
Dont talk, dont talk, dont talk,
Dont talk, dont talk to him
Nobody, talk, nobody ever told you, dont talk
*fais lamour avec moi (*make love to me)
Whats he saying baby
*viens dormir, mon amour (*come to sleep my love)
I asked you not to talk to him
*je taime donne moi ton coeur ce soir (*i like you to give me your heart this night)
Im begging you
Dont talk to strangers, baby dont you talk
Dont talk to strangers, you know hell only use you up
Dont talk, dont talk, dont talk,
Dont talk, dont talk to him
Nobody, talk, nobody ever told you, dont talk
Dont talk to strangers, baby dont you talk
Dont talk to strangers, you know hell only use you up
Dont talk to strangers, baby dont you,
Baby dont you talk,
Dont talk to strangers

song performed by Rick Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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Straight Talk

Gimme some straight talk, straight talk -- and hold the sugar please
Straight talk, straight talk -- sounds plenty sweet to me
Dont talk to me in circles in some mumbo-jumbo jive
Gimme just straight talk, straight talk and were gonna be alright
cause I like to know just where I stand, I dont like guessing games
And I hate a bunch of gibberish, so just spit it out real plain
Dont use big educated words from your bs degree
Straight talk, straight talk -- dont try b.s.-ing me
Straight talk, straight talk -- turn loose and let it go
You can tell me anything -- just like on oprahs show
Just tell me how you really feel, be on the up and up
With questions I can understand -- for answers you can trust
Pick up the phone, youre not alone -- weve all got something to say
So listen in and listen up -- well find a better way
With honesty and common sense, its really hard to miss
Straight talk, straight talk -- just tellin it like it is
Straight talk, straight talk -- theres nothing like the truth
Just tell me all your troubles -- pretend Im donahue
So dont be shy, cause we can talk -- you know youve got a friend
Call me, call me -- for simple straight talkin
Whats cookin, america?
Straight talk, straight talk
Straight talk, straight talk
So some on lets talk turkey, just straight and to the point
About passions, about problems, about noses out of joint
Now I want you all to know I care and I do understand
And hey, thanks for lending me and ear out there in radioland
Give me some straight talk, straight talk -- dont sugar coat it please
Straight talk, straight talk -- sounds sweet enough to me
But dont talk to me in circles, in your mumbo-jumbo jive
Straight talk, straight talk -- and were gonna be alright
Straight talk, straight talk -- makes plenty sense to me
Dont talk to me in circles, in your mumbo-jumbo jive
Gimme just straight talk, straight talk -- and were gonna be alright
Gimme just straight talk, straight talk -- and were gonna be alright

song performed by Dolly Parton
Added by Lucian Velea
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Anelida and Arcite

Thou ferse god of armes, Mars the rede,
That in the frosty contre called Trace,
Within thy grisly temple ful of drede
Honoured art as patroun of that place;
With thy Bellona, Pallas, ful of grace,
Be present and my song contynue and guye;
At my begynnyng thus to the I crye.

For hit ful depe is sonken in my mynde,
With pitous hert in Englyssh to endyte
This olde storie, in Latyn which I fynde,
Of quene Anelida and fals Arcite,
That elde, which that al can frete and bite,
As hit hath freten mony a noble storie,
Hath nygh devoured out of oure memorie.

Be favorable eke, thou Polymya,
On Parnaso that with thy sustres glade,
By Elycon, not fer from Cirrea,
Singest with vois memorial in the shade,
Under the laurer which that may not fade,
And do that I my ship to haven wynne.
First folowe I Stace, and after him Corynne.

The Story.

Iamque domos patrias Cithice post aspera gentis
Prelia laurigero subeunte Thesea curru
Letifici plausus missusque ad sidera vulgi

When Theseus with werres longe and grete
The aspre folk of Cithe had overcome,
With laurer corouned, in his char gold-bete,
Hom to his contre-houses is he come,
For which the peple, blisful al and somme,
So cry{:e}den that to the sterres hit wente,
And him to honouren dide al her entente.

Beforn this duk, in signe of victorie,
The trompes come, and in his baner large
The ymage of Mars, and in tokenyng of glorie
Men myghte sen of tresour many a charge,
Many a bright helm, and many a spere and targe,
Many a fresh knyght, and many a blysful route,
On hors, on fote, in al the feld aboute.

Ipolita his wif, the hardy quene
Of Cithia, that he conquered hadde,
With Emelye her yonge suster shene,

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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The Parliament Of Fowles

Here begynyth the Parlement of Foulys

THE PROEM

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,
Thassay so hard, so sharp the conquering,
The dredful Ioy, that alwey slit so yerne,
Al this mene I by love, that my feling
Astonyeth with his wonderful worching
So sore y-wis, that whan I on him thinke,
Nat wot I wel wher that I wake or winke.

For al be that I knowe nat love in dede,
Ne wot how that he quyteth folk hir hyre,
Yet happeth me ful ofte in bokes rede
Of his miracles, and his cruel yre;
Ther rede I wel he wol be lord and syre,
I dar not seyn, his strokes been so sore,
But God save swich a lord! I can no more.

Of usage, what for luste what for lore,
On bokes rede I ofte, as I yow tolde.
But wherfor that I speke al this? not yore
Agon, hit happed me for to beholde
Upon a boke, was write with lettres olde;
And ther-upon, a certeyn thing to lerne,
The longe day ful faste I radde and yerne.

For out of olde feldes, as men seith,
Cometh al this newe corn fro yeer to yere;
And out of olde bokes, in good feith,
Cometh al this newe science that men lere.
But now to purpos as of this matere --
To rede forth hit gan me so delyte,
That al the day me thoughte but a lyte.

This book of which I make of mencioun,
Entitled was al thus, as I shal telle,
`Tullius of the dreme of Scipioun.';
Chapitres seven hit hadde, of hevene and helle,
And erthe, and soules that therinnr dwelle,
Of whiche, as shortly as I can hit trete,
Of his sentence I wol you seyn the grete.

First telleth hit, whan Scipion was come
In Afrik, how he mette Massinisse,
That him for Ioye in armes hath y nome.
Than telleth hit hir speche and al the blisse
That was betwix hem, til the day gan misse;
And how his auncestre, African so dere,

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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Talk To Me

When I see you, girl you turn my head, you make me dizzy
I get a good vibration
When I look into your big blue eyes, I start to quiver and shake
I get a strange sensation
When you walk by me you strut around, you make me crazy, I get no relaxation
Talk to me, talk to me, all I want is a little conversation
Talk to me, talk to me, all I want is a little conversation, talk to me
People tell me that you run around and that youre no good
You got a bad reputation
I dont care what all the people say, you know they talk too much
Its a fascination
All I wanna do is talk to you and maybe go out, and form some kind of relation
So talk to me, talk to me, all I want is a little conversation
Talk to me, talk to me, all I want is a little conversation
Talk to me, talk to me, talk to me, talk to me - why dont you
Talk to me - cmon and talk to me
I just wanna talk to you
Girl I wish you knew the way I felt, you think Im silly, that its infatuation
So we better get together soon, because I need you girl
I cant stand the frustration, so
Talk to me, talk to me, all I want is a little conversation
Talk to me, talk to me, all I want is a little conversation
Talk to me, talk to me, all I want is a little conversation
Talk to me, talk to me, talk to me, talk to me - why dont you
Talk to me - cmon and talk to me
Talk to me, talk to me, talk to me - I just wanna talk to you
(repeats out)

song performed by Kiss
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Cellar Door

By the old tavern door on the causey there lay
A hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray,
And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a drop
As dry as the cinders that lay in his shop;
And there stood the cobbler as dry as a bun,
Almost crackt like a bucket when left in the sun.
He'd whetted his knife upon pendil and hone
Till he'd not got a spittle to moisten the stone;
So ere he could work--though he'd lost the whole day--
He must wait the new broach and bemoisten his clay.

The cellar was empty, each barrel was drained
To its dregs--and Sir John like a rebel remained
In the street--for removal too powerful and large
For two or three topers to take into charge.
Odd zooks, said a gipsey, with bellows to mend,
Had I strength I would just be for helping a friend
To walk on his legs: but a child in the street
Had as much power as he to put John on his feet.
Then up came the blacksmith: Sir Barley, said he,
I should just like to storm your old tower for a spree;

And my strength for your strength and bar your renown
I'd soon try your spirit by cracking your crown.
And the cobbler he tuckt up his apron and spit
In his hands for a burster--but devil a bit
Would he move--so as yet they made nothing of land;
For there lay the knight like a whale in the sand.
Said the tinker: If I could but drink of his vein
I should just be as strong and as stubborn again.
Push along, said the toper, the cellar's adry:
There's nothing to moisten the mouth of a fly.

Says the host, We shall burn out with thirst, he's so big.
There's a cag of small swipes half as sour as a wig.
In such like extremes, why, extremes will come pat;
So let's go and wet all our whistles with that.
Says the gipsey, May I never bottom a chair
If I drink of small swipes while Sir John's lying there.
And the blacksmith he threw off his apron and swore
Small swipes should bemoisten his gullet no more:
Let it out on the floor for the dry cock-a-roach--
And he held up his hammer with threatens to broach

Sir John in his castle without leave or law
And suck out his blood with a reed or a straw
Ere he'd soak at the swipes--and he turned him to start,
Till the host for high treason came down a full quart.
Just then passed the dandy and turned up his nose:
They'd fain have him shove, but he looked at his clothes

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poem by John Clare
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I Wanna Talk About Me !

Uh huh, thats right
We talk about your work, how your boss is a jerk,
We talk about your church and your head when it hurts.
We talk about the troubles youve been havin wit your brother
bout your daddy and your mother and your crazy ex-lover.
We talk about your friends and the places that youve been,
We talk about your skin and the dimples on your chin.
The polish on your toes and the run in your hose,
And God knows were gonna talk about your clothes.
You know talkin about you makes me smile, but every once in a while,
I wanna talk about me, I wanna talk about i
Wanna talk about number 1 oh my, me, my,
What I think, what I like, what I know, what I want, what I see.
I like talkin about you, you, you, you usually, but occasionally
I wanna talk about me! (me, me, me,) I wanna talk about me-e-e. (me, me, me)
We talk about your dreams and we talk about your schemes,
Your high school team and your moisturizer cream.
We talk about your nana up in muntzi, indiana,
We talk about your grandma down in alabama.
We talk about your guys of every shape and size,
The ones that you despize and the ones you idolize.
We talk about your heart, bout your brains and your smarts,
And your medical charts and when you start.
You know talkin about you makes me grin, but every now and then,
I wanna talk about me, I wanna talk about i,
Wanna talk about number 1 oh my, me, my.
What I think, what I like, what I know, what I want, what I see.
I like talkin about you, you, you, you usually, but occasionally
I wanna talk about me! (me, me, me,) I wanna talk about me-e-e (me, me, me)
(I wanna talk about me) mmmm me, me, me, me, me
(I wanna talk about me) mmmm me, me, me, me, me
You, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you,
I wanna talk about me!
I wanna talk about me, I wanna talk about i,
Wanna talk about number 1 oh my, me, my.
What I think, what I like, what I know, what I want, what I see,
Oh I like talkin about you, you, you, you usually, but occasionally,
I wanna talk about me! (me, me, me) I wanna talk about me-e-e
I wanna talk about me! (me, me, me) no me-e-e! (me, me, me)

song performed by Toby Keith
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rejected

She says she’s very sorry, as she sees you to the gate;
You calmly say ‘Good-bye’ to her while standing off a yard,
Then you lift your hat and leave her, walking mighty stiff and straight—
But you’re hit, old man—hit hard.
In your brain the words are burning of the answer that she gave,
As you turn the nearest corner and you stagger just a bit;
But you pull yourself together, for a man’s strong heart is brave
When it’s hit, old man—hard hit.

You might try to drown the sorrow, but the drink has no effect;
You cannot stand the barmaid with her coarse and vulgar wit;
And so you seek the street again, and start for home direct,
When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.

You see the face of her you lost, the pity in her smile—
Ah! she is to the barmaid as is snow to chimney grit;
You’re a better man and nobler in your sorrow, for a while,
When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.

And, arriving at your lodgings, with a face of deepest gloom,
You shun the other boarders and your manly brow you knit;
You take a light and go upstairs directly to your room—
But the whole house knows you’re hit.

You clutch the scarf and collar, and you tear them from your throat,
You rip your waistcoat open like a fellow in a fit;
And you fling them in a corner with the made-to-order coat,
When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.

You throw yourself, despairing, on your narrow little bed,
Or pace the room till someone starts with ‘Skit! cat!—skit!’
And then lie blindly staring at the plaster overhead—
You are hit, old man—hard hit.

It’s doubtful whether vanity or love has suffered worst,
So neatly in our nature are those feelings interknit,
Your heart keeps swelling up so bad, you wish that it would burst,
When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.

You think and think, and think, and think, till you go mad almost;
Across your sight the spectres of the bygone seem to flit;
The very girl herself seems dead, and comes back as a ghost,
When you’re hit, like this—hard hit.

You know that it’s all over—you’re an older man by years,
In the future not a twinkle, in your black sky not a split.
Ah! you’ll think it well that women have the privilege of tears,
When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.

You long and hope for nothing but the rest that sleep can bring,

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Drinking my own anger

I couldn’t hit the earth in my bouts of anger; as it
was the one which grew the food necessary for my
survival,

I couldn’t hit the wall in my bouts of anger; as it
was the one which sequestered my scalp against
tumultuous storm and rain; it was the one which constituted and
fortified my dwelling,

I couldn't hit the tree in my bouts of anger; as it
was laden with the fruits I nibbled in my times of
relish; imparted me with velvety breeze in the
sweltering night,

I couldn’t hit the mirror in my bouts of anger; as it
magnificently portrayed to me my pellucid and candid
reflection; and doing so I knew would exacerbate the
situation further; would make my own hand bleed,

I couldn’t hit mothers stomach in my bouts of anger;
for it was the singular pouch which had bore me for 9
months unrelentingly; the very sacred sac which was
responsible for my existence today,

I couldn’t hit the snake in my bouts of anger; for it
guarded my treasury of wealth unflinchingly all night
and day; and would viciously retort back the instant I
raised my fingers to strike,

I couldn’t hit the Sun in my bouts of anger; for it
was the sole source of light which maneuvered me in
the day; lit up my every morning with an enchanting
smile,
I couldn’t hit the child in my bouts of anger; for it
was all the energy I possessed; was the sweetest
little form of God running gleefully on this earth,

I couldn’t hit the waters in my bouts of anger; for
they were the ones who pacified my thirst several
times a day; blended my life with loads of mesmerizing
cool and shade,

I couldn’t hit the silver plate in my bouts of anger;
for it was the one in which I actually consumed my
food three times in a day; and insulting it could
probably result in not getting food even three times a
year,

I couldn’t hit the car in my bouts of anger; for it
was the one which transported me marathon distances;

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poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Money Talks

(myles goodwyn)
Published by northern goody two tunes, ltd./capac - ascap
I work so hard just to get along
Before I know it, all the moneys gone
I do my best just to make headway
And save some money for a rainy day
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks, I said
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, we should talk, talk about it
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, we should talk
I find it rough just to pay the rent
Before I know it all the moneys spent
I work hard and toe the line
And learn to take one day at a time
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks, I said
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, we should talk, talk about it
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, lets talk
We pay our taxes just like they say
And man it hurts to give the money away
A penny saved, a penny earned
You do your best, and you still get burned
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks, I said
If money talks, its not talkin to me, if money talks
I work so hard, just like you (just like you)
But someday thingsll change
If money can talk, this is it
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, we should talk, talk about it
If money can talk, lets talk
If money can talk, we should talk

song performed by April Wine
Added by Lucian Velea
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