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My Iron Long (live)

Faith, you're driving me away Faith, you're driving me away
You do it everyday
You don't mean it
But it hurts like hell
My brain says I'm recieving pain
A lack of oxygen
From my life support
My iron lung
We're too young to fall asleep
To cynical to speak
We are losing it
Can't you tell?
We scratch our eternal itch
A twentieth century bitch
And we are grateful for
Our iron lung
The head shrinkers
They want everything
My uncle Bill
My Belisha beacon
The head shrinkers
They want everything
My uncle Bill
My Belisha beacon
Suck, suck your teenage thumb
Toilet trained and dumb
When the power runs out
We'll just hum
This, this is our new song
Just like the last one
A total waste of time
My iron lung
The head shrinkers
They want everything
My uncle Bill
My Belisha beacon
The head shrinkers
They want everything
My uncle Bill
My Belisha beacon
And if you're frightened
You can be frightened
You can be, it's OK
And if you're frightened
You can be frightened
You can be, it's OK
The head shrinkers
They want everything
My uncle Bill
My Belisha beacon

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song performed by Radiohead
Added by Lucian Velea
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When You Pick the Ticks Off Monkeys

Your love for monkeys,
Leaves a lump right here...
In my throat!

And I get so emotional,
When you swing from branch to tree branch...
On a vine,
Swinging...
Like one who has swung on a rope!

And when you pick ticks...
From another monkey's fur?
I get teary eyed...
Just watching what occurs!

When you pick the ticks off monkeys,
You remove the itch.
When you pick the ticks off monkeys,
You remove the itch.
When you pick the ticks off monkeys,
You remove the itch.
You remove the itch.
You remove that itch.

Ooo ooo ooo ooo ahhh ahhh ahhh ahhh,
You remove the itch.
Ooo ooo ooo ooo ahhh ahhh ahhh,
You remove the itch.
Ooo ooo ooo ooo ahhh ahhh ahhh ahhh,
You remove the itch.
You remove the itch.
You remove that itch.

When you pick the ticks off monkeys,
You remove the itch.
When you pick the ticks off monkeys,
You remove the itch.
When you pick the ticks off monkeys,
You remove the itch.
You remove the itch.
You remove that itch.

Your love for monkeys,
Leaves a lump right here...
In my throat!

And I get so emotional,
When you swing from branch to tree branch...
On a vine,
Swinging...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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
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The Believer's Principles : Chap. IV.

Faith and Sense Natural, compared and distinguished.

When Abram's body, Sarah's womb,
Were ripe for nothing but the tomb,
Exceeding old, and wholly dead,
Unlike to bear the promis'd seed:

Faith said, 'I shall an Isaac see;'
'No, no,' said Sense, 'it cannot be;'
Blind Reason, to augment the strife,
Adds, 'How can death engender life?'

My heart is like a rotten tomb,
More dead than ever Sarah's womb;
O! can the promis'd seed of grace
Spring forth from such a barren place?

Sense gazing but on flinty rocks,
My hope and expectation chokes:
But could I, skill'd in Abram's art,
O'erlook my dead and barren heart;

And build my hope on nothing less
That divine pow'r and faithfulness;
Soon would I find him raise up sons
To Abram, out of rocks and stones.

Faith acts as busy boatmen do,
Who backward look and forward row;
It looks intent to things unseen,
Thinks objects visible too mean.

Sense thinks it madness thus to steer,
And only trusts its eye and ear;
Into faith's boat dare thrust its oar,
And put it further from the shore.

Faith does alone the promise eye;
Sense won't believe unless it see;
Nor can it trust the divine guide,
Unless it have both wind and tide.

Faith thinks the promise sure and good;
Sense doth depend on likelihood;
Faith ev'n in storms believes the seers;
Sense calls all men, ev'n prophets, liars.

Faith uses means, but rests on none;
Sense sails when outward means are gone:

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poem by Ralph Erskine
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Itch

Ha ha ha (ahh)
Don't wanna hurt you (hurt you baby)
You think you love me, but you don't really know me
Don't wanna hurt you (hurt you baby)
Wanna go ride, not a backseat drive
Ahhhhh ooh - ay ay ay I need
Ahhhhh ohh - something inside that you can't provide
I'm feeling the itch again
I need to get tricked again
I'm starting to twitch again
I feel the itch again
I'm starting to twitch again
I need to get tricked again
I feel the itch again
I feel the itch
i-i-itch, i-i-i-i-itch (ahh)
i-i-itch (ahh), i-i-i-i-itch
Don't want to hurt you (hurt you baby)
You can hug me, but you can't really hold me
what I do, and it's crazy
Don't wanna be cold, but I'm out of control
Ahhhhh ooh - ay ay ay that's true
Ahhhhh ooh - wish I could, but I can't be good
I'm feeling the itch again
I need to get tricked again
I'm starting to twitch again
I feel the itch again
I'm starting to twitch again
I need to get tricked again
I feel the itch
I feel the itch again
i-i-itch, i-i-i-i-itch (ahh)
i-i-itch (ahh), i-i-i-i-itch
Cause I want to go down wanna feel my heart pound
Don't you know that I get restless
You can't reach where I need scratching
So feel the itch again
Itch
Itch
Ahhhhh ooh - ay ay ay I need
Something inside that you can't provide
I'm feeling the itch again
I need to get tricked again
I'm starting to twitch again
I feel the itch again
I'm starting to twitch again
I need to get tricked again
I feel the itch again
I feel the itch
Yeah yeah, I feel the itch again

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song performed by Vitamin C
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20 Century Boy

Friends say its fine, friends say its good
Everybody says its just like robin hood
I move like a rat, talk like a cat, sting like a bee
Babe Im gonna be your man
And its plain to see you were meant for me, yeah
Im your toy your twentieth century boy
Friends says its fine, friends says its good
Everybody says its just like robin hood
Fly like a plane, drive like a car, hold out your hand
Babe Im gonna be your man
And its plain to see you were meant for me, yeah
Im your boy your twentieth century toy
Twentieth century boy
I wanna be your toy
Twentieth century boy
I wanna be your toy
Twentieth century boy
I wanna be your toy
Twentieth century boy
I wanna be your toy
Friends say its fine, friends say its good
Everybody says its just like rock n roll
I move like a cat, talk like a rat, sting like a bee
Babe Im gonna be your man
And its plain to see you were meant for me, yeah
Im your toy your twentieth century boy
Twentieth century boy
I wanna be your toy
Twentieth century boy
I wanna be your toy
Twentieth century boy
I wanna be your toy
Twentieth century boy
I wanna be your toy

song performed by Placebo
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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:

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poem by Robert Browning (1871)
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Paradise Lost: Book 02

High on a throne of royal state, which far
Outshone the wealth or Ormus and of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised
To that bad eminence; and, from despair
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires
Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue
Vain war with Heaven; and, by success untaught,
His proud imaginations thus displayed:--
"Powers and Dominions, Deities of Heaven!--
For, since no deep within her gulf can hold
Immortal vigour, though oppressed and fallen,
I give not Heaven for lost: from this descent
Celestial Virtues rising will appear
More glorious and more dread than from no fall,
And trust themselves to fear no second fate!--
Me though just right, and the fixed laws of Heaven,
Did first create your leader--next, free choice
With what besides in council or in fight
Hath been achieved of merit--yet this loss,
Thus far at least recovered, hath much more
Established in a safe, unenvied throne,
Yielded with full consent. The happier state
In Heaven, which follows dignity, might draw
Envy from each inferior; but who here
Will envy whom the highest place exposes
Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share
Of endless pain? Where there is, then, no good
For which to strive, no strife can grow up there
From faction: for none sure will claim in Hell
Precedence; none whose portion is so small
Of present pain that with ambitious mind
Will covet more! With this advantage, then,
To union, and firm faith, and firm accord,
More than can be in Heaven, we now return
To claim our just inheritance of old,
Surer to prosper than prosperity
Could have assured us; and by what best way,
Whether of open war or covert guile,
We now debate. Who can advise may speak."
He ceased; and next him Moloch, sceptred king,
Stood up--the strongest and the fiercest Spirit
That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair.
His trust was with th' Eternal to be deemed
Equal in strength, and rather than be less
Cared not to be at all; with that care lost
Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worse,
He recked not, and these words thereafter spake:--

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poem by John Milton
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Bishop Blougram's Apology

No more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk.
A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith!
We ought to have our Abbey back, you see.
It's different, preaching in basilicas,
And doing duty in some masterpiece
Like this of brother Pugin's, bless his heart!
I doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes,
Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere;
It's just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh?
These hot long ceremonies of our church
Cost us a little—oh, they pay the price,
You take me—amply pay it! Now, we'll talk.

So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs.
No deprecation—nay, I beg you, sir!
Beside 't is our engagement: don't you know,
I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out,
We'd see truth dawn together?—truth that peeps
Over the glasses' edge when dinner's done,
And body gets its sop and holds its noise
And leaves soul free a little. Now's the time:
Truth's break of day! You do despise me then.
And if I say, "despise me"—never fear!
1 know you do not in a certain sense—
Not in my arm-chair, for example: here,
I well imagine you respect my place
(Status, entourage, worldly circumstance)
Quite to its value—very much indeed:
—Are up to the protesting eyes of you
In pride at being seated here for once—
You'll turn it to such capital account!
When somebody, through years and years to come,
Hints of the bishop—names me—that's enough:
"Blougram? I knew him"—(into it you slide)
"Dined with him once, a Corpus Christi Day,
All alone, we two; he's a clever man:
And after dinner—why, the wine you know—
Oh, there was wine, and good!—what with the wine . . .
'Faith, we began upon all sorts of talk!
He's no bad fellow, Blougram; he had seen
Something of mine he relished, some review:
He's quite above their humbug in his heart,
Half-said as much, indeed—the thing's his trade.
I warrant, Blougram's sceptical at times:
How otherwise? I liked him, I confess!"
Che che, my dear sir, as we say at Rome,
Don't you protest now! It's fair give and take;
You have had your turn and spoken your home-truths:
The hand's mine now, and here you follow suit.

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poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Twentieth Century

Oh, the Twentieth Century wasn't all that bad
It was a time like no one else has ever had
We learned to drive, we learned to fly
We sent a man into the sky
When he walked on the moon, we were so glad
Yeah, the Twentieth Century wasn't all that bad
Yeah, the Twentieth Century was quite a ride
We had to learn to see the other side
We had demonstrations and liberations
Great depressions and good vibrations
And doors that once were closed were opened wide
Oh, the Twentieth Century was quite a ride
We had movin' pictures and radio
And Broadway, country, rock and roll
In 1900, who'd a bet we'd all be surfing on the internet
Yeah, the Twentieth Century was a heck of a show
We all had our fifteen minutes, don't you know
Assembly lines, celebrities,
the spotlight shined on you and me
And everybody got a standin' O
Yeah, the Twentieth Century was a heck of a show
From blocks of ice to air condition
Telegraph to television
In 1900, who'd a known we all wind up
with pocket phones
The Twentieth Century wasn't all that long
Just a hundred years has come and gone
We can't go back even if we try
So I'll just smile and wave goodbye
To see it leavin' makes me kinda sad
It was a time like no one else has ever had
Oh, the Twentieth Century wasn't all that bad
The Twentieth Century
Bye-bye
The Twentieth Century
Goodbye

song performed by Alabama
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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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,—

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Loves of the Angels

'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw without surprise
In the mid-air angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.

Alas! that Passion should profane
Even then the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!

One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side where hung the ray
Of sunset brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they lookt from time to time
To the far sky where Daylight furled
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Spirits who once in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,
Creatures of light such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And thro' their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!

Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;
Till yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beamed above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,-
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When like a bird from its high nest

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poem by Thomas Moore
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The City of Dreadful Night

Per me si va nella citta dolente.

--Dante

Poi di tanto adoprar, di tanti moti
D'ogni celeste, ogni terrena cosa,
Girando senza posa,
Per tornar sempre la donde son mosse;
Uso alcuno, alcun frutto
Indovinar non so.

Sola nel mondo eterna, a cui si volve
Ogni creata cosa,
In te, morte, si posa
Nostra ignuda natura;
Lieta no, ma sicura
Dell' antico dolor . . .
Pero ch' esser beato
Nega ai mortali e nega a' morti il fato.

--Leopardi

PROEM

Lo, thus, as prostrate, "In the dust I write
My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears."
Yet why evoke the spectres of black night
To blot the sunshine of exultant years?
Why disinter dead faith from mouldering hidden?
Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden,
And wail life's discords into careless ears?

Because a cold rage seizes one at whiles
To show the bitter old and wrinkled truth
Stripped naked of all vesture that beguiles,
False dreams, false hopes, false masks and modes of youth;
Because it gives some sense of power and passion
In helpless innocence to try to fashion
Our woe in living words howe'er uncouth.

Surely I write not for the hopeful young,
Or those who deem their happiness of worth,
Or such as pasture and grow fat among
The shows of life and feel nor doubt nor dearth,
Or pious spirits with a God above them
To sanctify and glorify and love them,
Or sages who foresee a heaven on earth.

For none of these I write, and none of these
Could read the writing if they deigned to try;

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poem by James Thomson
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Love's A Bitch

Oh!...oh!
Loves got me by the ass again
I've been in love since I don't know when
I keep a-runnin' and I don't know why
Love's givin' me a crock of lies
Out of breath and I'm out of time
Misery is a ruff fight
Love's a bitch, baby
Love's a bitch, yes it's crazy
Love's a bitch, baby
Love's a bitch, yeah it's crazy
Love's a bitch!
Like a cat with diamond eyes
Love's power it can hypnotize
Done me in (ha)
More than twice
She'll make you think that it's over night
Your all alone in a room that's wrong
Your body shakes
Your feet are cold
Love's a bitch, baby
Love's a bitch, yeah it's crazy
Love's a bitch, baby
Love's a bitch, yes it's crazy
Love's a bitch! (whoa, ooh ooh, yes it is)
(Oh, oh, oh)
Such a bitch (oh)
Don't you wait, don't stand still
Gotta keepa movin' or you'll pay the bill
Go by car, go by train
You gotta keepa runnin' or you'll feel the pain
Keepa runnin', keepa runnin'
Love's a bitch, baby
Love's a bitch, yes it's crazy
Love's a bitch, bitch, bitch, baby
Love's a bitch, it's crazy
Love's a bitch! (NO!)
It's a bitch!!!!

song performed by Quiet Riot
Added by Lucian Velea
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Twentieth Century Fox

Well, shes fashionably lean, and shes fashionably late
Shell never wreck a scene, shell never break a date
But shes no drag, just watch the way she walks
Shes a twentieth century fox, shes a twentieth century fox
No tears, no fears, no ruined years, no clocks
Shes a twentieth century fox, oh yeah
Shes the queen of cool, and shes the lady who waits
Sent to manless school, it never hesitates
She wont waste time, on elementary talk
cause shes a twentieth century fox, shes a twentieth century fox
Got the world locked up, inside a plastic box
Shes a twentieth century fox, oh yeah
Twentieth century fox, oh yeah
Twentieth century fox
Shes a twentieth century fox

song performed by Doors
Added by Lucian Velea
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Twentieth Century Fox

Written by The Doors
Well, she's fashionably lean
Hey and she's fashionably late
She'll never gonna wreck a scene
She'll never break a date
But now she's no drag
Just watch the way that she walks
She's a twentieth century fox
She's a twentieth century fox
She's got world, she's got the world
All locked up inside a plastic box
She's a twentieth century fox, oh yeah
She's the queen of cool
And she's the lady who waits
Sent to manless school
She never gonna hesitate
Well know she don't waste her time
On all this elementary talk
She's a twentieth century fox
She's a twentieth century fox
She got the world, babe,
Now she got this world
She got it all locked up
Inside some kind of plastic plastic box
She's a Twentieth century fox, oh yeah
She's a Twentieth century fox, oh yeah
She's a Twentieth century fox, oh yeah
She's a Twentieth century fox

song performed by John Mellencamp
Added by Lucian Velea
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20th Century Man

This is the age of machinery,
A mechanical nightmare,
The wonderful world of technology,
Napalm hydrogen bombs biological warfare,
This is the twentieth century,
But too much aggravation
Its the age of insanity,
What has become of the green pleasant fields of jerusalem.
Aint got no ambition, Im just disillusioned
Im a twentieth century man but I dont wanna be here.
My mama said she cant understand me
She cant see my motivation
Just give me some security,
Im a paranoid schizoid product of the twentieth century.
You keep all your smart modern writers
Give me william shakespeare
You keep all your smart modern painters
Ill take rembrandt, titian, da vinci and gainsborough,
Girl we gotta get out of here
We gotta find a solution
Im a twentieth century man but I dont want to die here.
I was born in a welfare state
Ruled by bureaucracy
Controlled by civil servants
And people dressed in grey
Got no privacy got no liberty
Cos the twentieth century people
Took it all away from me.
Dont wanna get myself shot down
By some trigger happy policeman,
Gotta keep a hold on my sanity
Im a twentieth century man but I dont wanna die here.
My mama says she cant understand me
She cant see my motivation
Aint got no security,
Im a twentieth century man but I dont wanna be here.
This is the twentieth century
But too much aggravation
This is the edge of insanity
Im a twentieth century man but I dont wanna be here.

song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Itch, Itch, Itch

should it not annoy me
what comes from single addition sound
itch, itch, itch
scratching my finger point
my heart is like free market
my brain is like full garbage
itch, itch, itch
there's worm army in my back
I get itch in my leg
itch, itch, itch
it's an itch in my mouth
I have sharpen my nail
I want to jump and scream
can I come to scratch you into pieces
the hands that touch me impolitely
the blunt mind that speaks empty
itch, itch, itch
you are just itch for me

poem by Maria Sudibyo
Added by Poetry Lover
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Satan Absolved

(In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groups conversing.)
Satan. To--day is the Lord's ``day.'' Once more on His good pleasure
I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure
Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of God.
How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood,
Its old--world furniture, its linen long in press,
Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!
Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me
Intoxicates and haunts,--and hurts. Who would not be
God's liveried servant here, the slave of His behest,
Rather than reign outside? I like good things the best,
Fair things, things innocent; and gladly, if He willed,
Would enter His Saints' kingdom--even as a little child.

[Laughs. I have come to make my peace, to crave a full amaun,
Peace, pardon, reconcilement, truce to our daggers--drawn,
Which have so long distraught the fair wise Universe,
An end to my rebellion and the mortal curse
Of always evil--doing. He will mayhap agree
I was less wholly wrong about Humanity
The day I dared to warn His wisdom of that flaw.
It was at least the truth, the whole truth, I foresaw
When He must needs create that simian ``in His own
Image and likeness.'' Faugh! the unseemly carrion!
I claim a new revision and with proofs in hand,
No Job now in my path to foil me and withstand.
Oh, I will serve Him well!
[Certain Angels approach. But who are these that come
With their grieved faces pale and eyes of martyrdom?
Not our good Sons of God? They stop, gesticulate,
Argue apart, some weep,--weep, here within Heaven's gate!
Sob almost in God's sight! ay, real salt human tears,
Such as no Spirit wept these thrice three thousand years.
The last shed were my own, that night of reprobation
When I unsheathed my sword and headed the lost nation.
Since then not one of them has spoken above his breath
Or whispered in these courts one word of life or death
Displeasing to the Lord. No Seraph of them all,
Save I this day each year, has dared to cross Heaven's hall
And give voice to ill news, an unwelcome truth to Him.
Not Michael's self hath dared, prince of the Seraphim.
Yet all now wail aloud.--What ails ye, brethren? Speak!
Are ye too in rebellion? Angels. Satan, no. But weak
With our long earthly toil, the unthankful care of Man.

Satan. Ye have in truth good cause.

Angels. And we would know God's plan,
His true thought for the world, the wherefore and the why
Of His long patience mocked, His name in jeopardy.

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Added by Poetry Lover
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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
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