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The headache is mine and the cows are ours.

Portuguese proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Stress and Headache Free

I am stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
Stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
I am stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
No more nodding medicated.
Or allowing to berated.

I am stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
Stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
I am stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
Dues I had I paid it.
I feel today elated.

I am stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
Stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
I am stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
I'm happy that I've made it.
And there's nothing complicated!

Oh, I'm stressing headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
Yes I'm stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
I am stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.
I am happy that I've made it.
There is nothing complicated!
No more nodding medicated.
Or allowing to berated.
Dues I had I paid it.
I feel today elated.
I'm now more animated.
I'm now more animated.
I'm now more animated.
And my life can be paraded.
Since inside I'm illuminated!
Since inside I'm illuminated!
Since inside I'm illuminated!
Since inside I'm illuminated!

I am stress and headache free.
To peace I'm dedicated.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Langwidge

'The flamin' cows!' 'e ses; 'e did, an' worse;
'Twas 'orrible the langwidge that 'e used.
It made me blood run cold to 'ear 'im curse;
An' me that taken-back-like an' confused;
W'ile them poor beasts 'e belted an' abused.
'They couldn't shift,' 'e ses, 'a blanky 'earse!
The flamin' cows!'

'The flamin' cows!' You oughter 'eard 'im curse.
You would a bin that shocked. . . . An' the idear!
'Im usin' such remarks about a 'earse;
An' 'is own brother buried not a year.
'Not move a blanky 'earee!' 'e ses. My dear,
You 'ardly could imagine langwidge worse.
'The flamin' cows!'

'The flamin' cows!' Wot would the parson say?
An' 'im so friendly-like with 'im an' 'er.
I pity 'er; I do, 'cos, in 'er way.
She is respectable. But 'i! It's fur
From me, as you well know, to cast a slur,
On anyone; but wot I 'eard that day. . . .
'The flamin' cows!'

'The flamin' cows!' I know quite well that we
Ain't wot you'd call thin-skinned; and nasty pride
Is wot I never 'ad.... But 'er! ... W'y she
She's allus that stuck-up an' full o' side;
A sorter thing I never could abide.
An' all the time 'er 'usband.... Goodness me!
'The flamin' cows!'

'The flamin' cows!' O' course 'e never knowed
That I was list'nin' to 'im all the w'ile.
'E muster bin a full hour on the road;
An', Lord, you could 'a' 'eard 'im for a mile.
Jes' cos they stuck 'im in that boggy sile:
'If they ain't blanky swine,' 'e ses, 'I'm blowed!
The flamin' cows!'

'The flamin' cows!' W'y, if it 'ad occurred,
An' me not 'eard, I'd 'ardly think it true.
An', you know well, I wouldn't breathe a word
Against a livin' soul, I don't care 'oo;
Not if the Queen of Hingland arst me to.
But, oh! that langwidge! If you only 'eard!
'The flamin' cows!'

'The flamin' cows!' 'e ses,, an' more besides.
An' fancy! 'Im! To think that 'e would swear!

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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100 STD's 10,000 MTD's

There are STD's, sexually transmitted diseases.
and then there are MTD's, meat transmitted diseases.

The latter take a lot more lives.

*********

In Animal Flesh: Blood Sweat Tears as well as Carcinogens Cholesterol Colon Bacteria

Animal products kill more people annually in the US than
tobacco, alcohol, traffic accidents, war, domestic violence,
guns, and drugs combined. USAMRID wrote that consumption of pig flesh caused the world's most lethal pandemic in WW1,
euphemistically called flu. Anthrax
used to be called wool sorters'
disease. Smallpox used to be called
cow pox or kine pox because of
its origin in animal flesh.
.

WHAT'S IN A BURGER? BLOOD SWEAT AND TEARS (AS WELL AS BIOTERRORISM)

POISONS IN ANIMAL AND FISH FLESH... A PARTIAL LIST

a partial list in alphabetical order

acidification diseases
addiction (to trioxypurines)
adrenalin (secreted by terrorized
animals before and during slaughter)

ANTIBIOTICS (too many to list) (crowded factory farm animals standing in their own feces are often infected)

BACTERIA
creiophilic bacteria survive
the freezing of animal flesh
thermophilic bacteria survive
the baking boiling and roasting

bacteriophages (viruses FDA allows to
be injected)
blood
colon bacteria.. euphemistically
called ecoli animals defecate
all over themselves in terror
John Harvey Kellogg MD studied
the exponential rate into the billions

BSE DISEASES, PRIONS IN SPECIES FROM GELATIN (JELLO ETC)
Mad Chicken

[...] Read more

poem by O. Anna Niemus
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A Drought Idyll

It was the middle of the drought; the ground was hot and bare,
You might search for grass with a microscope, but nary grass was there;
The hay was done, the cornstalks gone, the trees were dying fast,
The sun o'erhead was a curse in read and the wind was a furnace blast;
The waterholes were sun-baked mud, the drays stood thick as bees
Around the well, a mile away, amid the ringbarked trees.

McGinty left his pumpkin-pie and gazed upon the scene:
His cows stood propped 'gainst tree and fence wherever they could lean;
The horse he'd fixed with sapling forks had fallen down once more;
The fleas were hopping joyfully on stockyard, path, and floor;
The flies in thousands buzzed about before his waving hand;
The hungry pigs squealed as he said, 'Me own, me native land!'

'Queensland, me Mother! Ain't yer well?' he asked. 'Come tell me how's -'
'Dry up! Dry up!' yelled Mrs Mac, 'Go out and feed the cows.'
'But where's the feed?' McGinty cried, 'The sugarcane's all done -
It wasn't worth the bally freight we paid for it per ton.
I'll get me little axe and go with Possum and the mare
For 'arf a ton of apple-tree or a load of prickly-pear.'

'The prickly-pear'll kill the cows unless yer bile it right,'
Cried Mrs Mac, 'and I don't mean to bile it all the night.
They tell me fer a bob a bag the brewery will sell
Their refuse stuff, like Simpson 'ad - his cows is doin' well.
Yer get the loan of Bampston's dray and borrer Freeny's nags,
And fetch along a decent load, McGinty - thirty bags.

McGinty borrowed Bampston's dray and hitched up Freeney's nags
And drove like blazes into town and fetched back thirty bags.
The stuff was mellow, soft, and brown; and if you came too near
It shed around a lovely scent till the air seemed full of beer,
McGinty fetched each feedbox out and filled it to the brim,
Then lit his pipe and fell asleep. That was the style of him.

The cows, they lurched off fence and tree and staggered in to feed,
The horses tottered after them - old, feeble, and knock-kneed.
But when they smelt that sacred stuff in boxes on the ground
They smiled and neighed and lowed and twirled their hungry tails around.
You would have walked a hundred miles or more to see and hear
They way McGinty's stock attacked that stuff that smelt like beer…

'Wake up! Wake up! McGinty man! Wake up!' yelled Mrs Mac.
She held a broom and every word was followed by a whack.
McGinty had been dreaming hard that it was Judgement Day
And he was drafted with the goats and being driven away;
The Devil with a toasting fork was jabbing at his jaw,
He rose and yelled and fled outside - and this is what he saw:

The brindle cow, with spotted tail, was trying to climb a tree;

[...] Read more

poem by George Essex Evans
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Big Tall Man

Im a big, tall man
I cut the grass
My left eye hurts
I am waiting and reading parts
I can be a complicated communicator
Yes, Im winning, spinning
I feel energy being pulled off from all sides
And it feels good
Like relieving a headache
Zeus and athens
Florida driveway
Asphalt and tires
Sand and the beach
Rocker panel
Headlights in the dark
I am drag racing
Drag
Yes, Im winning, spinning
I feel energy being pulled off from all sides
And it feels good
Like relieving a headache
Yes, Im winning, spinning
I feel energy being pulled off from all sides
And it feels good
Like relieving a headache
Fog and the distance beyond it
Boats and the quiet morning noises
Im walking the shoreline
A beer and a cigarette
A bug with twitching antennae
A button-up short sleeved shirt
Yes, Im winning, spinning
I feel energy being pulled off from all sides
And it feels good
Like relieving a headache
Im a big, tall man
I cut the grass
My left eye hurts
I can be a complicated communicator
Yes, Im winning, spinning
I feel energy being pulled off from all sides
And it feels good
Like relieving a headache
Yes, Im winning, spinning
I feel energy being pulled off from all sides
And it feels good
Like relieving a headache
Yes, Im careening down / yes, Im winning, spinning
I feel energy being pulled off from all sides
And it feels good

[...] Read more

song performed by Liz Phair
Added by Lucian Velea
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One Less Headache

Well it's just a simple fact I
Need to have another drink or two to move on
And then ya won't matter at all
Well it's just a simple fact I
Need to lose you as a ball and chain and move on
And then ya won't matter at all
Wanted to believe
Wanted to believe in something
Now you're one less headache left at home
Wanted to believe
Wanted to believe in something
Now you're one less headache left at home
And now all that's left is
Shattered glass and some broken dreams for all
It really doesn't matter at all
Now that it's all said and done I
Had to have another drink for you and move on
And now you don't matter at all
Wanted to believe
Wanted to believe in something
Now you're one less headache left at home
Wanted to believe
Wanted to believe in something
Now you're one less headache left at home
Wanted to believe
Wanted to believe in something
Now you're one less headache left at home
Wanted to believe
Wanted to believe in something
Now you're one less headache left at home
Left at home
Believe in something
Now you're one less headache left at home

song performed by Zebrahead
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Odyssey: Book 12

"After we were clear of the river Oceanus, and had got out into
the open sea, we went on till we reached the Aeaean island where there
is dawn and sunrise as in other places. We then drew our ship on to
the sands and got out of her on to the shore, where we went to sleep
and waited till day should break.
"Then, when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I
sent some men to Circe's house to fetch the body of Elpenor. We cut
firewood from a wood where the headland jutted out into the sea, and
after we had wept over him and lamented him we performed his funeral
rites. When his body and armour had been burned to ashes, we raised
a cairn, set a stone over it, and at the top of the cairn we fixed the
oar that he had been used to row with.
"While we were doing all this, Circe, who knew that we had got
back from the house of Hades, dressed herself and came to us as fast
as she could; and her maid servants came with her bringing us bread,
meat, and wine. Then she stood in the midst of us and said, 'You
have done a bold thing in going down alive to the house of Hades,
and you will have died twice, to other people's once; now, then,
stay here for the rest of the day, feast your fill, and go on with
your voyage at daybreak tomorrow morning. In the meantime I will
tell Ulysses about your course, and will explain everything to him
so as to prevent your suffering from misadventure either by land or
sea.'
"We agreed to do as she had said, and feasted through the livelong
day to the going down of the sun, but when the sun had set and it came
on dark, the men laid themselves down to sleep by the stern cables
of the ship. Then Circe took me by the hand and bade me be seated away
from the others, while she reclined by my side and asked me all
about our adventures.
"'So far so good,' said she, when I had ended my story, 'and now pay
attention to what I am about to tell you- heaven itself, indeed,
will recall it to your recollection. First you will come to the Sirens
who enchant all who come near them. If any one unwarily draws in too
close and hears the singing of the Sirens, his wife and children
will never welcome him home again, for they sit in a green field and
warble him to death with the sweetness of their song. There is a great
heap of dead men's bones lying all around, with the flesh still
rotting off them. Therefore pass these Sirens by, and stop your
men's ears with wax that none of them may hear; but if you like you
can listen yourself, for you may get the men to bind you as you
stand upright on a cross-piece half way up the mast, and they must
lash the rope's ends to the mast itself, that you may have the
pleasure of listening. If you beg and pray the men to unloose you,
then they must bind you faster.
"'When your crew have taken you past these Sirens, I cannot give you
coherent directions as to which of two courses you are to take; I will
lay the two alternatives before you, and you must consider them for
yourself. On the one hand there are some overhanging rocks against
which the deep blue waves of Amphitrite beat with terrific fury; the
blessed gods call these rocks the Wanderers. Here not even a bird

[...] Read more

poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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The Great Hunger

I
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove
Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs
And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily.
Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods?
Or why do we stand here shivering?
Which of these men
Loved the light and the queen
Too long virgin? Yesterday was summer. Who was it promised marriage to himself
Before apples were hung from the ceilings for Hallowe'en?
We will wait and watch the tragedy to the last curtain,
Till the last soul passively like a bag of wet clay
Rolls down the side of the hill, diverted by the angles
Where the plough missed or a spade stands, straitening the way.
A dog lying on a torn jacket under a heeled-up cart,
A horse nosing along the posied headland, trailing
A rusty plough. Three heads hanging between wide-apart legs.
October playing a symphony on a slack wire paling.
Maguire watches the drills flattened out
And the flints that lit a candle for him on a June altar
Flameless. The drills slipped by and the days slipped by
And he trembled his head away and ran free from the world's halter,
And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland
When he laughed over pints of porter
Of how he came free from every net spread
In the gaps of experience. He shook a knowing head
And pretended to his soul
That children are tedious in hurrying fields of April
Where men are spanning across wide furrows.
Lost in the passion that never needs a wife
The pricks that pricked were the pointed pins of harrows.
Children scream so loud that the crows could bring
The seed of an acre away with crow-rude jeers.
Patrick Maguire, he called his dog and he flung a stone in the air
And hallooed the birds away that were the birds of the years.
Turn over the weedy clods and tease out the tangled skeins.
What is he looking for there?
He thinks it is a potato, but we know better
Than his mud-gloved fingers probe in this insensitive hair.
'Move forward the basket and balance it steady
In this hollow. Pull down the shafts of that cart, Joe,
And straddle the horse,' Maguire calls.
'The wind's over Brannagan's, now that means rain.
Graip up some withered stalks and see that no potato falls
Over the tail-board going down the ruckety pass -
And that's a job we'll have to do in December,

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick Kavanagh
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Drawing a Purple Blank Verse after Gelett BURGESS Purple Cow

DRAWING A PURPLE BLANK VERSE
Kindly refer to notes

I've never cowed to purple prose
know now I'll never write it,
for anyhow true writer knows
hand stretched finds critics bite it.

I've never wowed, and goodness knows
hacks lack the knack of versing,
won't bow, kowtow to backhand blows,
preferring role reverse_sing.

Ah, yes, I wrote on purple prose,
yet can't regret I penned it,
one far prefers rhyme's timeless flows,
no blush need rush defend it.

10 February 2009
robi03_1856_burg01_0001 PWX_IXX

Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow

Author notes

For original and variations on a theme see bekiw
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
THE PURPLE COW

I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one,
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one.

Gelett BURGESS 1866_1951
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
CONFESSION

Ah, yes! I wrote the « Purple Cow » -
I’m Sorry, now, I Wrote it,
But I can Tell you Anyhow
I’ll Kill you if you Quote it.

Gelett BURGESS 1866_1951
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
A Perfect Woman

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Purple Cow Parodies

Gelett Burgess' original poem…

A Purple Cow

I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.

Poem parodied in the
style of…

John Milton

Hence, vain, deluding cows.
The herd of folly, without colour bright,
How little you delight,
Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse!
But, hail! thou goddess gay of feature!
Hail divinest purple creature!
Oh, Cow, thy visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight.
And though I'd like, just once, to see thee
I never, never, never'd be thee!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Cow thou never wert;
But in life to cheer it
Playest thy full part
In purple lines of unpremeditated art.

The pale purple colour
Melts around thy sight
Like a star, but duller,
In the broad daylight.
I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.

We look before and after
At the cattle as they browse;
Our most hearty laughter
Something sad must rouse.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of Purple Cows.

[...] Read more

poem by Carolyn Wells
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The Shepherds Calendar - July

Daughter of pastoral smells and sights
And sultry days and dewy nights
July resumes her yearly place
Wi her milking maiden face
Ruddy and tand yet sweet to view
When everywhere's a vale of dew
And raps it round her looks that smiles
A lovly rest to daily toils
Wi last months closing scenes and dins
Her sultry beaming birth begins

Hay makers still in grounds appear
And some are thinning nearly clear
Save oddly lingering shocks about
Which the tithman counteth out
Sticking their green boughs where they go
The parsons yearly claims to know
Which farmers view wi grudging eye
And grumbling drive their waggons bye
In hedge bound close and meadow plains
Stript groups of busy bustling swains
From all her hants wi noises rude
Drives to the wood lands solitude
That seeks a spot unmarkd wi paths
Far from the close and meadow swaths
Wi smutty song and story gay
They cart the witherd smelling hay
Boys loading on the waggon stand
And men below wi sturdy hand
Heave up the shocks on lathy prong
While horse boys lead the team along
And maidens drag the rake behind
Wi light dress shaping to the wind
And trembling locks of curly hair
And snow white bosoms nearly bare
That charms ones sight amid the hay
Like lingering blossoms of the may
From clowns rude jokes they often turn
And oft their cheeks wi blushes burn
From talk which to escape a sneer
They oft affect as not to hear
Some in the nooks about the ground
Pile up the stacks swelld bellying round
The milking cattles winter fare
That in the snow are fodderd there
Warm spots wi black thorn thickets lind
And trees to brake the northern wind
While masters oft the sultry hours
Will urge their speed and talk of showers
When boy from home trotts to the stack

[...] Read more

poem by John Clare
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Headache

This wrinkle in time, I cant give it no credit
I thought about my space and I really got me down
(got me down)
Got me so down, I got me a headache
My heart is crammed in my cranium and it still knows how to pound
I was counting the rings
And I fell me into sleep
I peeked to see if you were way back when
I was counting the trees
Until a day when there was one
Id hoped beneath, asleep is where that you had been
This wrinkle in time, I cant give it no credit
I thought about my space and I really got me down
(got me down)
Got me so down, I got me a headache
My heart is crammed in my cranium and it still knows how to pound
Well, I found you
Maybe you can help me
And I can help you
This wrinkle in time, I cant give it no credit
I thought about my space and I really got me down
(got me down)
Got me so down, I got me a headache
My heart is crammed in my cranium and it still knows how to pound
Got me so down, I got me a headache
My heart is crammed in my cranium and it still knows how to pound
This wrinkle in time, I cant give it no credit
I thought about my space and I really got me down
(got me down)

song performed by Frank Black
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rural Morning

Soon as the twilight through the distant mist
In silver hemmings skirts the purple east,
Ere yet the sun unveils his smiles to view
And dries the morning's chilly robes of dew,
Young Hodge the horse-boy, with a soodly gait,
Slow climbs the stile, or opes the creaky gate,
With willow switch and halter by his side
Prepared for Dobbin, whom he means to ride;
The only tune he knows still whistling oer,
And humming scraps his father sung before,
As 'Wantley Dragon,' and the 'Magic Rose,'
The whole of music that his village knows,
Which wild remembrance, in each little town,
From mouth to mouth through ages handles down.
Onward he jolls, nor can the minstrel-throngs
Entice him once to listen to their songs;
Nor marks he once a blossom on his way;
A senseless lump of animated clay--
With weather-beaten hat of rusty brown,
Stranger to brinks, and often to a crown;
With slop-frock suiting to the ploughman's taste,
Its greasy skirtings twisted round his waist;
And hardened high-lows clenched with nails around,
Clamping defiance oer the stoney ground,
The deadly foes to many a blossomed sprout
That luckless meets him in his morning's rout.
In hobbling speed he roams the pasture round,
Till hunted Dobbin and the rest are found;
Where some, from frequent meddlings of his whip,
Well know their foe, and often try to slip;
While Dobbin, tamed by age and labour, stands
To meet all trouble from his brutish hands,
And patient goes to gate or knowly brake,
The teasing burden of his foe to take;
Who, soon as mounted, with his switching weals,
Puts Dob's best swiftness in his heavy heels,
The toltering bustle of a blundering trot
Which whips and cudgels neer increased a jot,
Though better speed was urged by the clown--
And thus he snorts and jostles to the town.

And now, when toil and summer's in its prime,
In every vill, at morning's earliest time,
To early-risers many a Hodge is seen,
And many a Dob's heard clattering oer the green.

Now straying beams from day's unclosing eye
In copper-coloured patches flush the sky,
And from night's prison strugglingly encroach,
To bring the summons of warm day's approach,

[...] Read more

poem by John Clare
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A Map Of Culture

Culture

Contents

What is Culture?

The Importance of Culture

Culture Varies

Culture is Critical

The Sociobiology Debate

Values, Norms, and Social Control

Signs and Symbols

Language

Terms and Definitions

Approaches to the Study of Culture

Are We Prisoners of Our Culture?

What is Culture?

I prefer the definition used by Ian Robertson: 'all the shared products of society: material and nonmaterial' (Our text defines it in somewhat more ponderous terms- 'The totality of learned, socially transmitted behavior. It includes ideas, values, and customs (as well as the sailboats, comic books, and birth control devices) of groups of people' (p.32) .

Back to Contents

[...] Read more

poem by Nyein Way
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Cain and Abel

Western Version

Cain and Abel were brothers born.
(Koop-la! Come along, cows!)
One raised cattle and one raised corn.
(Koop-la! Come along! Co-hoe!)

And Cain he farmed by the river-side,
So he did not care how much it dried.

For he banked, and he sluiced, and he ditched and he led
(And the Corn don't care for the Horn)--
A-half Euphrates out of her bed
To water his dam' Corn!

But Abel herded out on the plains
Where you have to go by the dams and rains.

It happened, after a three-year drought,
The wells, and the springs, and the dams gave out.

The Herd-bulls came to Cain's new house
(They wanted water so!--)
With the hot red Sun between their brows,
Sayin' "Give us water for our pore cows!"
But Cain he told 'em--"No!"

The Cows they came to Cain's big house
With the cold white Moon between their brows,
Sayin' "Give some water to us pore cows!"
But Cain he told 'em--"No?"

The li'l Calves came to Cain's fine house
With the Evenin' Star between their brows,
Sayin' "'Give us water an' we'll be cows."
But Cain he told 'em--"No!"

The Herd-bulls led 'em back again,
An' Abel went an' said to Cain: --
"Oh sell me water, my brother dear,
Or there will be no beef this year."
And Cain he answered--"No! "

"Then draw your hatches, my brother true,
An' let a little water through."
But Cain he answered: -"No!

"My dams are tight an' my ditches are sound,
An' not a drop goes through or round

[...] Read more

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Food In Heaven

Food In Heaven
Food In Heaven



He made the cows to want the rain to fall he made the grass that they use to eat to fill the want inside a cow he makes grass as bread for cows they just continue there to graze in some places in the desert spaces there is grass for cows to eat this is called heaven sweet to cows they drink water when they have it in a drink flavored pouch oh no see eh ewe caught me making lies no listen while eye smile and tell ewe this poem is so nice there is grass for all the cows there is grass on every hill and every cow can eat in heaven they still have grass for every cow there is food in heaven there is food there in a drink flavored pouch.

poem by Charles Hice
Added by Poetry Lover
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Countin The Cows Every Day

Countin the cows every day
By: jimmy buffett
1975
Oh Im just a cowboy, an old hired hand
Never seen nothin majestic or grand
I just received a great big tax return
Now Im off to las vegas with money to burn
Its been a while since I last left this town
Bought a new suit and Im nevada bound
Gonna make it, gonna break it, Ive been there before
Nothins gone wrong, this towns such a bore
Chorus:
Aw, the train leaves at seven, all go to heaven
Nothin here to make me stay
cause that las vegas glitter sure beats kitty litter
Countin the cows every day
Chorus:
Yeah, the train leaves at seven, on up to heaven
Nothin here to make me stay
cause that las vegas glitter sure beats kitty litter
Countin the cows every day
And countin the cows every day

song performed by Jimmy Buffett
Added by Lucian Velea
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Cowtown

Im going down to cowtown
The cows a friend to me
Lives beneath the ocean and thats where I will be
Beneath the waves, the waves
And thats where I will be
Im gonna see the cow beneath the sea
The yellow roosevelt avenue leaf overturned
The ardor of arboreality is an adventure we have spurned, weve spurned
A new leaf overturned
Its a new leaf overturned
And so Im going down to cowtown
The cows a friend to me
Lives beneath the ocean and thats where I will be
Beneath the waves, the waves
And thats where I will be
Im gonna see the cow beneath the sea
We yearn to swim for home, but our only home is bone
How sleepless is the egg knowing that which throws the stone
Foresees the bone, the bone
Our only home is bone
Our only home is bone
And so Im going down to cowtown
The cows a friend to me
Lives beneath the ocean and thats where I will be
Beneath the waves, the waves
And thats where I will be
Im gonna see the cow beneath the sea
Yes Im going down to cowtown
The cows a friend to me
Lives beneath the ocean and thats where I will be
Beneath the waves, the waves
And thats where I will be
Im gonna see the cow beneath the sea
Yes Im gonna see (Im gonna see)
The cow (the cow)
Beneath the sea

song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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My Tale: A la banquette, or a Modern Pilgrimage

I stayed at La Quenille, ten miles or more
From the old-Roman sources of Mont Dore;
Travellers to Tulle this way are forced to go,
An old high-road from Lyons to Bordeaux,
From Tulle to Brives the swift Corrèze descends,
At Brives you’ve railway, and your trouble ends;
A little bourg La Quenille; from the height
The mountains of Auvergne are all in sight;
Green pastoral heights that once in lava flowed,
Of primal fire the product and abode;
And all the plateaux and the lines that trace
Where in deep dells the waters find their place;
Far to the south above the lofty plain,
The Plomb du Cantal lifts his towering train.
A little after one, with little fail,
Down drove the diligence that bears the mail;
The courier therefore called, in whose banquette
A place I got, and thankful was to get;
The new postillion climbed his seat, allez,
Off broke the four cart-horses on their way.
Westward we roll, o’er heathy backs of hills,
Crossing the future rivers in the rills;
Bare table-lands are these, and sparsely sown,
Turning their waters south to the Dordogne.
Close-packed we were, and little at our ease.
The conducteur impatient with the squeeze;
Not tall he seemed, but bulky round about,
His cap and jacket made him look more stout;
In grande tenue he rode of conducteur;
Black eyes he had, black his moustaches were,
Shaven his chin, his hair and whiskers cropt;
A ready man; at Ussel when we stopt,
For me and for himself, bread, meat, and wine,
He got, the courier did not wait to dine;
To appease our hunger, and allay our drouth,
We ate and took the bottle at the mouth;
One draught I had, the rest entire had he,
For wine his body had capacity.
A peasant in his country blouse was there,
He told me of the conseil and the maire.
Their maire, he said, could neither write nor read,
And yet could keep the registers, indeed;
The conseil had resigned I know not what.
Good actions here are easily forgot:
He in the quarante-huit had something done,
Were things but fair, some notice should have won.
Another youth there was, a soldier he,
A soldier ceasing with to-day to be;
Three years had served, for three had bought release:
From war returning to the arts of peace,

[...] Read more

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough from Mari Magno or Tales on Board
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Bringing Home The Cows

Shadows of the twilight falling
On the mountain's brow,
To each other birds are calling,
In the leafy bough.
Where the daisies are a-springing,
And the cattle bells are ringing,
Comes my Mary, gaily singing,
Bringing home the cows.

By a bush the pathway skirted,
Room for two allows.
All the cornfields are deserted,
Idle are the ploughs.
Striving for wealth's spoil and booty,
Farmer boys have finished duty,
When I meet my little beauty,
Bringing home the cows.

Tender words and kind addresses,
Most polite of bows,
Rosy cheeks and wavy tresses
Do my passions rouse

Dress so natty and so cleanly,
Air so modest and so queenly.
Oh! so haughty, yet serenely,
Bringing home the cows.

Arm-in-arm together walking,
While the cattle browse,
Earnestly together talking,
Plighting lovers' vows.
Where the daisies are a-springing,
Wedding bells will soon be ringing,
Then we'll watch our servant bringing
Mine and Mary's cows.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Added by Poetry Lover
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