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The tongue is not statically smooth.

African proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Microphone Fiend

Yo, I was a fiend before I became a teen
I melted microphone instead of cones of ice cream
Music orientated so when hip-hop was originated
Fitted like pieces of puzzles, complicated
Shot grabbed the mic and try to say, yes yall!
They tried to take it, and say that Im too small
Cool, cause I dont get upset
I kick a hole in the speaker, pull the plug, then I jet
Back to the lab ...without a mic to grab
So then I add all the rhymes I had
One after the another one, then I make another one
To dis the opposite then ask if the brothers done
I get a craving like I fiend for nicotine
But I dont need a cigarette, know what I mean?
Im raging, ripping up the stage and
Dont it sound amazing cause every rhyme is made and
Thought of, cuz its sort of...an addiction,
Magnatized by the mixing
E-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
E-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
But back to the problem, I gotta habit,
You cant solve it, you silly rabbit
The prescription is a hypertone thats thorough when
I fiend for a microphone like heroin
Soon as the bass kicks, I need a fix
Gimme a stage and a mic and a mix
And Ill put you in a mood or is it a state of
Unawareness? beware, its the reanamator!
A menace to a microphone, a lethal weapon
An assasinator, if the people aint stepping
You see a part of me that you never seen
When Im fiending for a microphone.
Cause I take it to the maximum, I cant relax see, im
Hype as a hyperchrondriac cause the rap be one
Hell of a antidote, something you cant smoke
More than dope, youre trying to move away but you cant, youre broke
More than cracked up, you should have backed up
For those who act up need to be more than smacked up
E-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.
An e-f-f-e-c-t
A smooth operator operating correctly.

[...] Read more

song performed by Rage Against The Machine
Added by Lucian Velea
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Your Woulda Be Smooth

If you treat me decently,
I'd be the last one to scratch your number.
If you treat me decently,
I'd put the sandpaper to rough lumber.
If you treat me decently...
Your woulda be smooth.

If you treat me decently,
I'd be the last one to scratch your number.
If you treat me decently,
I'd put the sandpaper to rough lumber.
If you treat me decently...
Your woulda be smooth.

No shoulda coulda.
Your woulda be smooth.
No suit too loose.
Your woulda be smooth.
No loot to boot.
Your woulda be smooth.
And you can do anything you wish to do,
Cause...
Your woulda be smooth!

If you wanna stay cute,
You've gotta keep your mouth muted.
And...
your woulda be smooth.

If you treat me decently,
I'd be the last one to scratch your number.
If you treat me decently,
I'd put the sandpaper to rough lumber.
If you treat me decently...
Your woulda be smooth.

No shoulda coulda.
Your woulda be smooth.
No suit too loose.
Your woulda be smooth.
No loot to boot.
Your woulda be smooth.
And you can do anything you wish to do,
Cause...
Your woulda be smooth!

If you wanna stay cute,
You've gotta keep your mouth muted,
And...
Your woulda be smooth!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sugar Feat Ludacris & Cee-Lo)

[Cee-Lo] Uh huh
[T-Dubl] Yeah
[Cee-Lo] Aw man I got a sweet tooth, can you dig it
[T-Dubl] After this one you gon need a root canal then
[Cee-Lo] I love sugar all of it
[T-Dubl] This one for all the clean, decent women
[Cee-Lo] Lay it on me girl
[T-Dubl] Pay Close Attention
[Hook: Cee-Lo]
She put that sugar on my tongue
Shes gonna
Gimme gimme some
She put it right there on my tongue [Skeet Skeet]
Right there on my tongue [She turns me on, like no other]
[Trick Daddy]
And gimme some of your butter pecan
Put it right there on tip of my tongue, hold it
Right jeeeah
Cuz baby, if I bite you
I bet you like it
French Vanilla's a hell of a flavor for me
With strawberries, two cherries and whipped cream
The best things are the wet dreams
And uh, the rest is just a flick without a sex scene
Or lee, I speak the truth
Cuz the blacker the berry
The sweeter the juice
Cuz, Florida oranges and Georgia peaches
When they nice and ripe, they the best for eatin'
Southern boys we crave for old slice of pie after they main course
So if you game for it
I came for it
I got a thing for ya
That I can't ignore
[Hook: Cee-Lo]
She put that sugar on my tongue
Shes gonna
Gimme gimme some
She put it right there on my tongue [Skeet Skeet]
Right there on my tongue [She turns me on, like no other]
[Ludacris]
She put that sugar on my tongue, tongue
Yippie Yippie, Yum Yum
Goodie goodie gum drop
Put me in a tongue lock
Did it till my body went numb, numb
Laid her on her back, back
Turned her round, gave her bottom a smack, smack
She's a woman from the block with the best of weed
But I won't stop till I'm pullin out tracks, tracks

[...] Read more

song performed by Trick Daddy
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sugar On My Tongue

Oh, oh, Oh, oh,she's my neighbour
Fill my cup, I'll bet you baby
She'll fill it up
She'll drop the sugar on my tongue
Will she gimme gimme gimme some
She's gonna put sugar on my tongue
She's gonna gimme gimme gimme some
She'll put it right there on my tongue
Put it right there on my tongue
Sweet sweet, lover lover
Never never never find another
to put sugar on my tongue
Gimme gimme gimme some
Is she gonna put sugar on my tongue?
Is she gonna gimme gimme gimme some?
She'll put it right there on my tongue
Put it right there on my tongue
I've been waiting years and years
Finally I see that you appear
My friends are here, and they ask of me
'Is this the time that we're gonna see
her put the sugar on my tongue?'
Is she gonna put sugar on my tongue?
Is she gonna put sugar on my tongue?
Is she gonna gimme gimme some?
She'll put it right there on my tongue
put it right there on my tongue
Sugar on my tongue
Oh, oh, oh...

song performed by Talking Heads
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tongue Bath

Yeah, (ohhh), we got the hood rats in the house right
(Would you like a tongue bath babe)
They say they like tongue bath (from the back)
So, uh, we went and got Methron
But of course, it's the Ying-Yang Twins
Let me see you freak your body
I won't stop until you get enough
Anyway you want it, I'm with it
I just wanna get up in it
(You want a tongue bath, you need a tongue bath)
Let me see you freak your body
I won't stop until you get enough
A tongue bath, from the back
Oh yes, that's the way I like it
(You want a tongue bath, you need a tongue bath)
Forget about that Summer we stretched straight thuggin it up
In the tongue bath world we was loving it up
I've been told by the eye we were holding each other
To the room, sexual, of the Isley Brothers
Sippin' Alazez and Hennessee, straight thug passion
Licking nipples, got you gigglin', so you started to laugh
And now it's getting so erotic baby
All of a sudden so I'm kissing on your body baby
Admit it babb
See baby a tongue bath is what I like
Lick me up, lick me down, curve my appetite
Let me open up my legs, show me what you got
The way you licking on my body's got me really hot
And I'm loving the way you lick me though
Do it little daddy, let your tongue take control
You got me shaking like hell when you're licking my toes
From the top to the bottom, make your tongue roll
Let me see you freak your body
I won't stop until you get enough
Anyway you want it, I'm with it
I just wanna get up in it
(You want a tongue bath, you need a tongue bath)
Let me see you freak your body
I won't stop until you get enough
A tongue bath, from the back
Oh yes, that'

song performed by Ying Yang Twins
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Rhymed Lesson (Urania)

Yes, dear Enchantress,—­wandering far and long,
In realms unperfumed by the breath of song,
Where flowers ill-flavored shed their sweets around,
And bitterest roots invade the ungenial ground,
Whose gems are crystals from the Epsom mine,
Whose vineyards flow with antimonial wine,
Whose gates admit no mirthful feature in,
Save one gaunt mocker, the Sardonic grin,
Whose pangs are real, not the woes of rhyme
That blue-eyed misses warble out of time;—­
Truant, not recreant to thy sacred claim,
Older by reckoning, but in heart the same,
Freed for a moment from the chains of toil,
I tread once more thy consecrated soil;
Here at thy feet my old allegiance own,
Thy subject still, and loyal to thy throne!

My dazzled glance explores the crowded hall;
Alas, how vain to hope the smiles of all!
I know my audience. All the gay and young
Love the light antics of a playful tongue;
And these, remembering some expansive line
My lips let loose among the nuts and wine,
Are all impatience till the opening pun
Proclaims the witty shamfight is begun.
Two fifths at least, if not the total half,
Have come infuriate for an earthquake laugh;
I know full well what alderman has tied
His red bandanna tight about his side;
I see the mother, who, aware that boys
Perform their laughter with superfluous noise,
Beside her kerchief brought an extra one
To stop the explosions of her bursting son;
I know a tailor, once a friend of mine,
Expects great doings in the button line,—­
For mirth’s concussions rip the outward case,
And plant the stitches in a tenderer place.
I know my audience,—­these shall have their due;
A smile awaits them ere my song is through!

I know myself. Not servile for applause,
My Muse permits no deprecating clause;
Modest or vain, she will not be denied
One bold confession due to honest pride;
And well she knows the drooping veil of song
Shall save her boldness from the caviller’s wrong.
Her sweeter voice the Heavenly Maid imparts
To tell the secrets of our aching hearts
For this, a suppliant, captive, prostrate, bound,
She kneels imploring at the feet of sound;

[...] Read more

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Gotham - Book I

Far off (no matter whether east or west,
A real country, or one made in jest,
Nor yet by modern Mandevilles disgraced,
Nor by map-jobbers wretchedly misplaced)
There lies an island, neither great nor small,
Which, for distinction sake, I Gotham call.
The man who finds an unknown country out,
By giving it a name, acquires, no doubt,
A Gospel title, though the people there
The pious Christian thinks not worth his care
Bar this pretence, and into air is hurl'd
The claim of Europe to the Western world.
Cast by a tempest on the savage coast,
Some roving buccaneer set up a post;
A beam, in proper form transversely laid,
Of his Redeemer's cross the figure made--
Of that Redeemer, with whose laws his life,
From first to last, had been one scene of strife;
His royal master's name thereon engraved,
Without more process the whole race enslaved,
Cut off that charter they from Nature drew,
And made them slaves to men they never knew.
Search ancient histories, consult records,
Under this title the most Christian lords
Hold (thanks to conscience) more than half the ball;
O'erthrow this title, they have none at all;
For never yet might any monarch dare,
Who lived to Truth, and breathed a Christian air,
Pretend that Christ, (who came, we all agree,
To bless his people, and to set them free)
To make a convert, ever one law gave
By which converters made him first a slave.
Spite of the glosses of a canting priest,
Who talks of charity, but means a feast;
Who recommends it (whilst he seems to feel
The holy glowings of a real zeal)
To all his hearers as a deed of worth,
To give them heaven whom they have robb'd of earth;
Never shall one, one truly honest man,
Who, bless'd with Liberty, reveres her plan,
Allow one moment that a savage sire
Could from his wretched race, for childish hire,
By a wild grant, their all, their freedom pass,
And sell his country for a bit of glass.
Or grant this barbarous right, let Spain and France,
In slavery bred, as purchasers advance;
Let them, whilst Conscience is at distance hurl'd,
With some gay bauble buy a golden world:
An Englishman, in charter'd freedom born,
Shall spurn the slavish merchandise, shall scorn

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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A Stinging From A Venomous Tongue

What's been done...
Will always come back to be,
Left for another...
To be delivered,
And...received.
With a stinging from a venomous tongue.
And a stunning meaning to leave stung.

What's been done...
Will always come back to be,
Left for another...
To be delivered,
And...received.
With a stinging from a venomous tongue.
And a stunning meaning to leave stung.

And,
Deserved...
When,
Someone gets to receive...
A stunning meaning to leave stung.
From,
A stinging from a venomous tongue.
A stinging from a venomous tongue.

And,
Deserved...
When someone gets to receive,
A...
Stunning meaning to leave stung.
From...
Someone with a venomous tongue.
And a stinging of it meant to be done.

It's...
Deserved!
When someone gets to receive,
A...
Stunning meaning to leave stung.
From...
Someone with a venomous tongue.
And a stinging of it meant to be done.
A stinging of it meant to be done.

It's...
Deserved!
When someone gets to receive,
A stinging from a venomous tongue.
And a stinging of it meant to be done.
From someone with a venomous tongue.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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0265 Tongue

strange name for a pet yeah?
but that's what I call it
and it knows its name
so we get along OK
I keep it in its cage now
since it's a bit large and scary
for those who haven't met it
or know its owner
but I've given it all I can think of
to keep it amused in its cage
papers old books photos to keep its teeth sharp
we love each other to bits

but every now and again
I can 't resist opening up the cage
and letting it out to be itself
wild untamed sometimes vicious irresponsible
I used to say naughty Tongue
who's a naughty boy then
but I felt such a hypocrite
I love to see it free
it's like when you have a pet greyhound
that's never seen a track, or raced
faster faster
with all the crowd shouting
to please itself and its master
oh we're both so proud of Tongue

I was given it when it and me we were very small
and people would smile and say
what a pretty Tongue then
it'll grow up to be a fine Tongue
you must be very fond of it and proud too
to my parents who smiled weakly
they encouraged me and Tongue little did they know then
little did they think
that small Tongues grow to be big Tongues
well isn't that the same with all pets
until you flush them down the john
to roam the sewers or sneak out at night
to leave them scratching the tiles
in some gas station restroom
and giving someone's bladder
one hell of a shock opening the door
they hoped we'd grow apart Tongue and I
and I'd go on to something quieter
tattoos piercings stuff
I wouldn't do that not ever to Tongue
though we had to leave home Tongue and I

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Lara

LARA. [1]

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, [2]
And slavery half forgets her feudal chain;
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord —
The long self-exiled chieftain is restored:
There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far chequering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

II.

The chief of Lara is return'd again:
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe,
That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest! —
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone.

III.

And Lara left in youth his fatherland;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died;
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Lara. A Tale

The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain,
And slavery half forgets her feudal chain;
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord--
The long self-exiled chieftain is restored:
There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far chequering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

II.
The chief of Lara is return'd again:
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself;--that heritage of woe,
That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest!--
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone.

III.
And Lara left in youth his fatherland;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died;
'Yet doth he live!' exclaims the impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place;
But one is absent from the mouldering file,
That now were welcome to that Gothic pile.

IV.
He comes at last in sudden loneliness,
And whence they know not, why they need not guess;

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Slip Of The Tounge

(coverdale/vandenberg)
Sometime after midnight
The heat begins to rise,
Girl, youd shame the devil
With that look thats in your eyes
I know whats on your mind
An I cant run away,
If I dont give you what you want
Theres going to be some hell to pay
Creeping up behind me
Knocking at my door,
Ill never be too blind to see
Just what youre looking for
You roll me over, make me moan,
Oh, such a velvet touch
Youd melt a heart of stone
Anytime, anyplace,
Im just the fool who puts a smile on your face
A slave to love an keep you young
All it takes an no mistakes
Is just a slip of the tongue
Just a slip of the tongue
An if I want a little love
I gotta take a lot of pain,
Make me think a thousand times
Before I kiss again
Im waiting on you every day an every night
If I dont try to satisfy
Theres gonna be a fist fight
Anytime, anyplace,
Im just the fool who puts a smile on your face
A slave to love an keep you young
All it takes an no mistakes
Is just a slip of the tongue
Just a slip of the tongue
The sun is slowly rising
An Im sinking to my knees,
Im dying just to close my eyes
Im begging, darlin, please
I hear you calling
An Im crawling cross the floor
I give you everything Ive got
An still you ask for more
Anytime, anyplace,
Im just the fool who puts a smile on your face
A slave to love an keep you young
All it takes an no mistakes
Is just a slip of the tongue
A slip of the tongue,
Just a slip of the tongue,

[...] Read more

song performed by Whitesnake
Added by Lucian Velea
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It Is Poetic And Prophetic

It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
And...
This could be interpreted,
As comments from a cynic.

'I see the holes in shoes.'

And...
This could be interpreted,
As comments from a cynic.

'Those shoes have not been used.
Since many are afraid of walking.
But talk about nonsense,
They choose to do.'

It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
And...
It could be interpreted,
As comments from a cynic.

'Lips flap flip flop so much.'

And...
This could be interpreted,
As comments from a cynic.

'Flipping lips lick ears to touch,
With venom spiced and nothing nice to say...
Yet quick to pick from empty pockets.'

It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.
It is poetic and prophetic,
With some tongue in cheek stuff.

'Woe goes the mogul to spend from thieving.
Wishing to steal more.
To take and not to give.
Or...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Pleasures of Imagination: Book The Second

When shall the laurel and the vocal string
Resume their honours? When shall we behold
The tuneful tongue, the Promethéan hand
Aspire to ancient praise? Alas! how faint,
How slow the dawn of beauty and of truth
Breaks the reluctant shades of Gothic night
Which yet involve the nations! Long they groan'd
Beneath the furies of rapacious force;
Oft as the gloomy north, with iron-swarms
Tempestuous pouring from her frozen caves,
Blasted the Italian shore, and swept the works
Of liberty and wisdom down the gulph
Of all-devouring night. As long immur'd
In noon-tide darkness by the glimmering lamp,
Each muse and each fair science pin'd away
The sordid hours: while foul, barbarian hands
Their mysteries profan'd, unstrung the lyre,
And chain'd the soaring pinion down to earth.
At last the muses rose, and spurn'd their bonds,
And wildly warbling, scatter'd, as they flew,
Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers
Arno's myrtle border and the shore of soft Parthenope.

But still the rage of dire ambition and gigantic power,
From public aims and from the busy walk
Of civil commerce, drove the bolder train
Of penetrating science to the cells,
Where studious ease consumes the silent hour
In shadowy searches and unfruitful care.
Thus from their guardians torn, the tender arts
Of mimic fancy and harmonious joy,
To priestly domination and the lust
Of lawless courts, their amiable toil
For three inglorious ages have resign'd,
In vain reluctant: and Torquato's tongue
Was tun'd for slavish pæans at the throne
Of tinsel pomp: and Raphael's magic hand
Effus'd its fair creation to enchant
The fond adoring herd in Latian fanes
To blind belief; while on their prostrate necks
The sable tyrant plants his heel secure.

But now behold! the radiant æra dawns,
When freedom's ample fabric, fix'd at length
For endless years on Albion's happy shore
In full proportion, once more shall extend
To all the kindred powers of social bliss
A common mansion, a parental roof.
There shall the virtues, there shall wisdom's train,
Their long-lost friends rejoining, as of old,

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poem by Mark Akenside
Added by Poetry Lover
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Venus and Adonis

Even as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis tried him to the chase;
Hunting he lov'd, but love he laugh'd to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-fac'd suitor 'gins to woo him.
'Thrice fairer than myself,' thus she began,
'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.
'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses;
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses:
'And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety;
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'
With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.
The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens;--O! how quick is love:--
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:
Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.
So soon was she along, as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
'If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.'
He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;

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poem by William Shakespeare (1593)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Endymion: Book IV

Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
While yet our England was a wolfish den;
Before our forests heard the talk of men;
Before the first of Druids was a child;--
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude.
There came an eastern voice of solemn mood:--
Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine,
Apollo's garland:--yet didst thou divine
Such home-bred glory, that they cry'd in vain,
"Come hither, Sister of the Island!" Plain
Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she spake
A higher summons:--still didst thou betake
Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won
A full accomplishment! The thing is done,
Which undone, these our latter days had risen
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st what prison
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets
Our spirit's wings: despondency besets
Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.
Long have I said, how happy he who shrives
To thee! But then I thought on poets gone,
And could not pray:--nor can I now--so on
I move to the end in lowliness of heart.----

"Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part
From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid!
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields!
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields
A bitter coolness, the ripe grape is sour:
Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour
Of native air--let me but die at home."

Endymion to heaven's airy dome
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows,
When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows
His head through thorny-green entanglement
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.

"Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn
Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying
To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing?
No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet

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poem by John Keats
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Venus and Adonis

'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.'

To the right honorable Henry Wriothesly, Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichfield.
Right honorable.

I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world's hopeful expectation.

Your honour's in all duty.

Even as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.
'Thrice-fairer than myself,' thus she began,
'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.
'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses;
'And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety,
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'
With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.
The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens:--O, how quick is love!--
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:

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poem by William Shakespeare
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Kiss Me Red

I could paint your picture in the sky tonight
Your lipstick on the moon it shines so bright
Baby its full and white
Honey its full tonight
(chorus 1)
So kiss me red
Kiss me rogue
Kiss me rough
Kiss me smooth
Oh..
I could paint your picture in my room tonight
Your bodys on my mind its clear and bright
Oh but youre far away
And what I wouldnt pay
(chorus 2)
To kiss you red
Kiss you rogue
Kiss you rough
Kiss you smooth
Oh..
Its black out
And Im alone in the dark
But light a candle to replace your heart
What I wouldnt give to have you here in my bed
So kiss me red
Kiss me rogue
Kiss me rough
Kiss me smooth
Oh..
To kiss you red
Kiss you rogue
Kiss you rough
Kiss you smooth
Oh..
So kiss me red
Kiss me rogue
Kiss me rough
Kiss me smooth
Oh..
To kiss you red
Kiss you rogue
Kiss you rough
Kiss you smooth
Oh..
So kiss me red
Kiss me rogue
Kiss me rough
Kiss me smooth
Oh..

song performed by Cheap Trick
Added by Lucian Velea
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