Citatepedia^®.com

To a Fly of the Land (revised)

An apology, an excuse and a hope and a warning.

On this the land
On which I swat
You steward of the land
On which I squat
Forgive me my trespasses.

I acknowledge my failings:
I swat flies on railings.

You think I kill for thrill.
It hurts me more than you.
I pray that I can change my habit,
That you can change yours too:
Vomit on my food, don't do it,
Right after you have dined on poo.

A prayer is a hope that comes with a warning:
Keep out of my way
Don't lose your glasses
Don't give me cause
To go to swat classes.

poem by Douglas Scotney
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Prayer Changes

Somebody just look back over your life and
See where he brought you from
How many of you know?
Prayer changes (I heard that)
Prayer changes (I believe that)
Prayer changes (I know that)
Prayer changes things
Prayer changes (I heard that)
Prayer changes (I believe that)
Prayer changes (I know that)
Prayer changes things
Now I was in a real bad abusive relationship
Knowing that that was no way for me to live
A young girl like me, raised up in a good family
Way too young to endure such misery
And every night I cry myself to sleep from all the pain
And the more I prayed for sunny days it seemed to rain
(He'd hit me) at any given time
(He'd hit me) no reason at all
(He'd hit me) so, so hard
(He'd hit me) my God, sometimes I'd fall
Mama asked what happened to me
And I'd take up for him
She said the devil's a liar
And prayed God get rid of him
And now I'm going to school
Hitting those books I'm doing fine
He's out my life I'm not confused
Got peace of mind man I tell you
Prayer changes (it changes)
Prayer changes (oh it changes)
Prayer changes (I'm a witness)
Prayer changes things (said I know)
Prayer changes (it changes)
Prayer changes (it changes)
Prayer changes (I'm a living witness)
Prayer changes things
I was a freshman in college and uh...
I had just made it on the basketball team (yeah)
I had all the skills it took to make it
But on my grades I would get nothing but all D's (whoa-ah)
And the coach came to me
And had a talk with me about my career
Said if you don't get your grades up
I'm gonna have to sit you down this year
Man as tough as I was I'd break down and cried
'Cause everybody knows me
Knows that basketball is my life
(Algebra) I studied hard
(Chemistry) I gave my all

[...] Read more

song performed by R. Kelly
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Akond of Swat

Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?

Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
    The Akond of Swat?

Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
    The Akond of Swat?

Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
    The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
    The Akond of Swat?

When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
    The Akond of Swat?

Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
    The Akond of Swat?

Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
    At the Akond of Swat?

If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
    The Akond of Swat?

Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
    The Akond of Swat?

Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,

[...] Read more

poem by Edward Lear
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Overweight with Food

Are you just a tub of lard and
Vastly overweight?
Do you think that when you die you'll
Need a piano crate
To act as coffin for your frame? -
Chosen as you die in shame, with
Only you to take the blame
For years of eating much the same:
A daily calorific fest
Gourmands of your ilk digest!

Is your heart in final fling and
Nearly set to burst?
Are your arteries bunged and clogged and
Feeling now the worst
For wear? - your aneurysm fit to blow
While blood as thick as rising dough
Cries 'Halt! ' to any hope of flow:
A dreadful state to put on show
In front of any nurse!
Best you hail a hearse.

Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009

[...] Read more

poem by Mark R Slaughter
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

A Womans Threat

My time, my patience, my love
My blood, my sweat, my tears
My burdens, my drama, my pain
My car, my money, my home
My ups, my downs, my fears
And my hours, my work, my strength
My fault, my this, my that
Nigga please
If you dont stop
(this is a warning)
Someones gonna lay in your bed
(this is a warning)
And someones gonna eat your food
(this is a warning)
And someones gonna wear your clothes
(this is a warning)
And someones gonna fit your shoes
(this is a warning)
And someones gonna get your keys
(this is a warning)
And someones gonna open your doors
(this is a warning)
Someones gonna get your check
(this is a warning)
This is a womans threat
Baby, this is a womans threat
My shakin, my sleep, my stress
My days, my night, my rest
My dos, my donts, my dares
And my church, my pastor, my prayers
My all, my faith, my powers
And my kitchen, my sink, my towels
My joy, my sad, my hate
And my sister, my cousin, my friends
My lights, my gas, my bills
My role, my way, my will
My hollerin, my fussin, my fights
Nigga please
If you dont stop
(this is a warning)
Someones gonna lay in your bed
(this is a warning)
And someones gonna eat your food
(this is a warning)
And someones gonna wear your clothes
(this is a warning)
And someones gonna fit your shoes
(this is a warning)
And someones gonna get your keys
(this is a warning)

[...] Read more

song performed by R. Kelly
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Sir Orfeo

We often read and written find,
as learned men do us remind,
that lays that now the harpers sing
are wrought of many a marvellous thing.
Some are of weal, and some of woe,
and some do joy and gladness know;
in some are guile and treachery told,
in some the deeds that chanced of old;
some are of jests and ribaldry,
and some are tales of Faërie.
Of all the things that men may heed
'tis most of love they sing indeed.

In Britain all these lays are writ,
there issued first in rhyming fit,
concerning adventures in those days
whereof the Britons made their lays;
for when they heard men anywhere
tell of adventures that there were,
they took their harps in their delight
and made a lay and named it right.

Of adventures that did once befall
some can I tell you, but not all.
Listen now, lordings good and true,
and 'Orfeo' I will sing to you.

Sir Orfeo was a king of old,
in England lordship high did hold;
valour he had and hardihood,
a courteous king whose gifts were good.
His father from King Pluto came,
his mother from Juno, king of fame,
who once of old as gods were named
for mighty deeds they did and claimed.
Sir Orfeo, too, all things beyond
of harping's sweet delight was fond,
and sure were all good harpers there
of him to earn them honour fair;
himself he loved to touch the harp
and pluck the strings with fingers sharp.
He played so well, beneath the sun
a better harper was there none;
no man hath in this world been born
who would not, hearing him, have sworn
that as before him Orfeo played
to joy of Paradise he had strayed
and sound of harpers heavenly,
such joy was there and melody.
This king abode in Tracience,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

To A Fly Of The Land

a personal prayer, an excuse and a warning

On this the land
On which I swat
you steward of the land
On which I squat
Forgive me my trespasses.

I acknowledge my failings:
I swat flies on railings.

Keep out of my way
Don't lose your glasses
Don't give me cause
To go to swat classes.

poem by Douglas Scotney
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 12

WHEN Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honor question’d for the promis’d fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d, 5
The more his fury boil’d within his breast:
He rous’d his vigor for the last debate,
And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; 10
But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double pride:
He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire, 15
Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
At length approach’d the king, and thus began:
“No more excuses or delays: I stand
In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand, 20
This base deserter of his native land.
The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
The same conditions which himself did make.
Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
And to my single virtue trust the war. 25
The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;
This arm unaided shall assert your right:
Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,
To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”
To whom the king sedately thus replied: 30
“Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,
The more becomes it us, with due respect,
To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
You want not wealth, or a successive throne,
Or cities which your arms have made your own: 35
My towns and treasures are at your command,
And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;
Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
Unmarried, fair, of noble families.
Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, 40
Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,
But sound advice, proceeding from a heart
Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
No prince Italian born should heir my throne: 45
Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,
And oft our priests, a foreign son reveal’d.
Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,
Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied, 50

[...] Read more

poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Acknowledge Me

Hey! {cross the line sample}
{down on it repeats in bg}
Say baby, what u waitin on?
4 u, uh, aint no other fish in the sea
What u waitin on?
Acknowledge me
Acknowledge me, dont dog me anymore
I was here in the beginning and Ill be here 4ever more
Acknowledge me, I only wanna be your friend
I can make u happy baby, over and over again
Saw u at the party, u were lookin so fly
Everybody wanted your number, u wanted mine
U came right up 2 me in one wink of an eye
U told me that u think of me both day and night and that is why
Ive got 2 know how can u give your body 2 another
When your mind is here with me?
U need a friend much more than a lover
Thats all I ever said I wanted 2 be
Chorus:
Acknowledge me, dont dog me anymore (no baby)
I was here in the beginning and Ill be here 4ever more
Acknowledge me, I only wanna be your friend (oh baby)
I can make u happy baby, over and over again
Im waitin 4 the phone call, but it just dont ring
Im lookin 4 a letter or a sign from heaven or anything
Everyday that goes by is another day I want u more
Id give a million dollars 2 see u baby standin at my door
Ill lay u down and tell u stories
About the way that we could be
And when ure ready 2 feel the glory (feel the glory)
I will only want 2 love u when its somethin that u need
Chorus
Not that u care 4 a silly rhyme frontin an old clich (yeah) (yeah)
But look at me baby, what can I say?
There aint another fish in the sea (yeah)
I could be singin a song any style, any way
Aint nothin but a trick 2 me (blow)
But Im gonna blow this horn until ure on your knees
Beggin me please, please, please
Gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme love I can count on
Gimme, gimme body I cant go without
Uh, slaves 4 one another (hey!)
Yeah baby, thats what I do believe I am talkin about
So let me know how u wanna go? (yeah)
U wanna get with that or this? (yeah)
Uh, acknowledge me, baby
U got 2 or u can.. kiss..
How can u give your body 2 another? (how can u, baby? )
When your mind is here with me (its here with me)
U need a friend much more than a lover (u need a friend)

[...] Read more

song performed by Prince
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Salad is Incompatible with Life

Yes, my waist is fifty inches -
Big for me because I'm short.
And yes, I like my cheddar cheese
When partnered with a vintage port.

Okay, okay, that double cream
Is always served with pud,
And cake and biscuits with my tea
Are just no bloody good

For my poor hardened arteries,
But see my point of view,
Please dear wifey if you please,
A Salad makes me spew!

I'd rather eat a bowl of air
Than crunch away on greens;
Drink water from the toilet bowl
Or nibble on my jeans!

But salad! Are you there?
You know it makes me snappy -
So let me fill my face with grub,
Stay fat, and die young happy!

Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009

[...] Read more

poem by Mark R Slaughter
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Count Francesco Cenci.
Giacomo, his Son.
Bernardo, his Son.
Cardinal Camillo.
Orsino, a Prelate.
Savella, the Pope's Legate.
Olimpio, Assassin.
Marzio, Assassin.
Andrea, Servant to Cenci.
Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants.
Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children.
Beatrice, his Daughter.

The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.

ACT I

Scene I.
-An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo.

Camillo.
That matter of the murder is hushed up
If you consent to yield his Holiness
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.-
It needed all my interest in the conclave
To bend him to this point: he said that you
Bought perilous impunity with your gold;
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell
An erring soul which might repent and live:-
But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
As manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.

Cenci.
The third of my possessions-let it go!
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope
Had sent his architect to view the ground,
Meaning to build a villa on my vines
The next time I compounded with his uncle:
I little thought he should outwit me so!

[...] Read more

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

At The Gate

THE monastery towers, as pure and fair
As virgin vows, reached up white hands to Heaven;
The walls, to guard the hidden heart of prayer,
Were strong as sin, and white as sin forgiven;
And there came holy men, by world's woe driven;
And all about the gold-green meadows lay
Flower-decked, like children dear that keep May-holiday.

'Here,' said the Abbot, 'let us spend our days,
Days sweetened by the lilies of pure prayer,
Hung with white garlands of the rose of praise;
And, lest the World should enter with her snare--
Enter and laugh and take us unaware
With her red rose, her purple and her gold--
Choose we a stranger's hand the porter's keys to hold.'

They chose a beggar from the world outside
To keep their worldward door for them, and he,
Filled with a humble and adoring pride,
Built up a wall of proud humility
Between the monastery's sanctity
And the poor, foolish, humble folk who came
To ask for love and care, in the dear Saviour's name.

For when the poor crept to the guarded gate
To ask for succour, when the tired asked rest,
When weary souls, bereft and desolate,
Craved comfort, when the murmur of the oppressed
Surged round the grove where prayer had made her nest,
The porter bade such take their griefs away,
And at some other door their bane and burden lay.

'For this,' he said, 'is the white house of prayer,
Where day and night the holy voices rise
Through the chill trouble of our earthly air,
And enter at the gate of Paradise.
Trample no more our flower-fields in such wise,
Nor crave the alms of our deep-laden bough;
The prayers of holy men are alms enough, I trow.'

So, seeing that no sick or sorrowing folk
Came ever to be healed or comforted,
The Abbot to his brothers gladly spoke:
'God has accepted our poor prayers,' he said;
'Over our land His answering smile is spread.
He has put forth His strong and loving hand,
And sorrow and sin and pain have ceased in all the land.

'So make we yet more rich our hymns of praise,
Warm we our prayers against our happy heart.

[...] Read more

poem by Edith Nesbit
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems

March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan

Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.

Sincerely,

George W. Bush

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.

They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.

The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.

They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.

The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.

[...] Read more

poem by Tom Zart
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Shoot To Thrill

All you women who want a man of the street
But you dont know which way you wanna turn
Just keep a coming and put your hand out to me
cause Im the one whos gonna make you burn
Im gonna take you down - down, down, down
So dont you fool around
Im gonna pull it, pull it, pull the trigger
Shoot to thrill, play to kill
Too many women with too many pills
Shoot to thrill, play to kill
I got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will
Yeah
Im like evil, I get under your skin
Just like a bomb thats ready to blow
cause Im illegal, I got everything
That all you women might need to know
Im gonna take you down - yeah, down, down, down
So dont you fool around
Im gonna pull it, pull it, pull the trigger
Shoot to thrill, play to kill
Too many women with too many pills
Shoot to thrill, play to kill
I got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will
cause I shoot to thrill, and Im ready to kill
I cant get enough, I cant get the thrill
I shoot to thrill, play to kill
Yeah, pull the trigger
Pull it, pull it, pull it, pull the trigger
Oh
Shoot to thrill, play to kill
Too many women, with too many pills
I said, shoot to thrill, play to kill
I got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will
cause I shoot to thrill, and Im ready to kill
And I cant get enough, and I cant get my thrill
cause I shoot to thrill, play it again
Yeah
Shoot you down
Yeah
Im gonna get you to the bottom and shoot you
Im gonna shoot you
Oh hoo yeah yeah yeah
Im gonna shoot you down yeah yeah
Im gonna get you down
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
Shoot you, shoot you, shoot you, shoot you down
Shoot you, shoot you, shoot you down
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, ooooooh
Im gonna shoot to thrill
Play to kill

[...] Read more

song performed by AC-DC
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

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

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I Want A Warning

History is made, not repeated
And you hide behind words that make you feel needed
And what you read in those books made you so conceited
So in order for love to be true
My dreams will have to
Become my only rules
I want a warning
I want a warning
I want something more than a warning
I've been warned about you
I see through all your promises and warnings
I want a warning
I want a warning
I want something more than a warning
I've been warned about you
I see through all your promises and warnings
Wake me up on into a world outdated
And the older you get the more you seem jaded
As you search for the quotes to make it seem complicated
So in order for love to be true
Even my nightmares
Become my only rules
I want a warning
I want a warning
I want something more than a warning
I've been warned about you
I see through all your promises and warnings
I want a warning
I want a warning
I want something more than a warning
I've been warned about you
But I've seen through
Every promise is a warning
I want a warning
I want a warning
I want something more than a warning
I've been warned about you
I see through all your promises and warnings
I want a warning
I want a warning
I want something more than a warning
I've been warned about you
I've seen through
For a promise of a warning

song performed by Idlewild
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Paying Taxes

Done-with-a-minimum.
Donewithaminimum.
Done -with-a-minimum.
Donewithaminimum.

The rich pay...
Donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum.
And some say...
With lifestyles out of reach.

They've got 'moolay'...
Donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum.
And you and I will not be relieved from paying taxes.

The rich pay...
Donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum.
And some say...
With lifestyles out of reach.

They've got 'moolay'...
Donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum.
And you and I will not be relieved from paying taxes.

The money,
The rich have...
Flows nonstop!
Pootoo-poo-too-too-toot!
Pootoo-poo-too-too-toot!

The money,
The rich have...
Many aint got!
Pootoo-poo-too-too-toot!
Pootoo-poo-too-too-toot!

And those poor have paved the way,
For the snobs and snots.
It's clear who are the 'haves' and those 'have nots'.

Oh...
Done-with-a-minimum.
Do newithaminimum.
Done-with-a-minimum.
Donewi thaminimum.

The rich pay...
Donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum, donewithaminimum.
And some say...
With lifestyles out of reach.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

You Want To Do What You Want To Do

You want to do what you want to do,
With flip lip and attitude.

With a bet you boot...
To the curb who you choose to scoot!

You are quick with fault to feed,
Anyone you do not need!

With a bet you boot...
To the curb you choose to do.

You will do just as you please,
Caring less who you deceive!

With a bet you boot,
Anyone you poo poo doo!

She will be no,
Fool for you.
He will be no,
Fool for you.
We will be no,
Fool for you!

With a bet you boot,
Anyone you poo poo doo!

She will be no,
Fool for you.
He will be no,
Fool for you.
We will be no,
Fool for you!

With a bet you boot,
Anyone you poo poo doo!

You want to do what you want to do,
With flip lip and attitude.

With a bet that you boot...
To the curb who you choose to scoot!

But...
She will be no,
Fool for you.
He will be no,
Fool for you.
We will be no,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Were There Hope

I was never in a league of noble gentlemen
To whom she'd cast polite and flitting smiles,
Only distant hope and dying dreams for me!
Or perhaps descent into a game of wiles

To give a chance of sipping wine on heady nights
With her angelic presence to declare;
Above, an aura playing out hypnotic hues,
And I in awe of blonde cascades of hair.

But no! my tiring soul is sinking in a mire
To haunt me for an age and evermore, for
How could I expect to hold her silken hand
When I am but a soulless ghost of yore?

Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009

Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope, hope?
Hope?

[...] Read more

poem by Mark R Slaughter
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Victories Of Love. Book II

I
From Jane To Her Mother

Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart
Are not half known till they depart!
Although I long'd, for many a year,
To love with love that casts out fear,
My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me,
And heaven seem'd less far off than he;
And in my fancy I would trace
A lady with an angel's face,
That made devotion simply debt,
Till sick with envy and regret,
And wicked grief that God should e'er
Make women, and not make them fair.
That he might love me more because
Another in his memory was,
And that my indigence might be
To him what Baby's was to me,
The chief of charms, who could have thought?
But God's wise way is to give nought
Till we with asking it are tired;
And when, indeed, the change desired
Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise,
It comes by Providence, not Grace;
And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs
Are groans at unexpected cares.
First Baby went to heaven, you know,
And, five weeks after, Grace went, too.
Then he became more talkative,
And, stooping to my heart, would give
Signs of his love, which pleased me more
Than all the proofs he gave before;
And, in that time of our great grief,
We talk'd religion for relief;
For, though we very seldom name
Religion, we now think the same!
Oh, what a bar is thus removed
To loving and to being loved!
For no agreement really is
In anything when none's in this.
Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd
His wife against his hearty breast,
The interior difference seem'd to tear
My own, until I could not bear
The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife,
And show'd, indeed, that faith is life.
He never felt this. If he did,
I'm sure it could not have been hid;
For wives, I need not say to you,

[...] Read more

poem by Coventry Patmore
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!