Quotes about baker, page 4
Early Works - Universal Life
You wake up in the morning
and put your hands behind your head
as another day awaits your eager mind,
but what job would you choose to find
butcher, baker or maybe a preacher
writing striking sermons
to the multitude it would be read
of the peaceful life that eludes
without their wars and faults.
Maybe not a preacher but a baker instead
baking pies, cakes and bread
wedding cakes, rolls and steak pies,
but even baking has its constant ties.
Back to the reality your in
maybe a lawyer you might have been
questioning the witnesses
that the prosecution has brought forward
to help beat your case.
No its back to the drawing board in your mind
to etch another job to find,
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poem by David Harris
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Fit the Eighth (Hunting of the Snark )
The Vanishing
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
They shuddered to think that the chase might fail,
And the Beaver, excited at last,
Went bounding along on the tip of its tail,
For the daylight was nearly past.
"There is Thingumbob shouting!" the Bellman said.
"He is shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head,
He has certainly found a Snark!"
They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed
"He was always a desperate wag!"
They beheld him--their Baker--their hero unnamed--
On the top of a neighbouring crag,
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poem by Lewis Carroll
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It Is 'Them' I Am Trying To Protect
I am not a ssshh...taker.
Cake baker.
Or a candlestick maker.
Nor am I one to ooze charm...
When my patience is tested,
By anyone thinking...
I'm an easy piece of meat to tease!
And there are folks in the world,
Who ask to be cussed out!
And...
I will oblige their requests.
I remember my Mom saying to me once,
'I don't care how strange you look.
I want my house cleaned when I come home.'
My parents were direct!
I wish 911 was around,
When my father use to just look at me...
With those eyes he had!
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Outside snow dazzled the air
each joyous dream bit twirling out from infinity
as I sat in Meng’s with the crew
watching the soothing streets without desire.
Suddenly I heard the exuberant sound of a kazoo
going at full blast, Yankee Doodle Dandy the tune,
or something close to it
and that could only mean one person, Henry Kosminski,
known to all the world as The Original Mr. Universe
here to earn a few dollars,
as he often did since his retirement from the circus.
Well, at the age of 92 I suppose he couldn’t do
what he did as a young fellow.
Besides seventy years at the same job was enough for any man.
Ginger, Sugar, and Susan Honey Baker
gawked at Kosminski’s still formidable physique
his body still retaining remnants of glory.
Now silence as Henry bent straight down,
lifted a chair by the bottom of one leg
straight into the air, then gently placed
the tip of the leg on his nose, removed his hand,
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poem by Charles Chaim Wax
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Wry!
'Now girls, you finish your rye and milk, '
Tituba said, the slave,
The girls had clattered around the house,
'You girls, you'd better behave! '
She'd laid the table with cheese on rye,
With tumblers full of milk,
'Now eat your bread like your father said,
Or the devil will make you sick! '
The winter weather was cold that year,
The crops were brought in damp,
The miller muttered but said no more,
He ground by the midnight lamp,
The baker quibbled him over the price,
They knew that it wasn't dry,
But a wink and a nod to the Money God
Said, '...use the tainted rye! '
The girls began to suffer fits,
They'd crawl around on the floor,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Fit the Fourth ( Hunting of the Snark )
The Hunting
The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow.
"If only you'd spoken before!
It's excessively awkward to mention it now,
With the Snark, so to speak, at the door!
"We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe,
If you never were met with again--
But surely, my man, when the voyage began,
You might have suggested it then?
"It's excessively awkward to mention it now--
As I think I've already remarked."
And the man they called "Hi!" replied, with a sigh,
"I informed you the day we embarked.
"You may charge me with murder--or want of sense--
(We are all of us weak at times):
But the slightest approach to a false pretence
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poem by Lewis Carroll
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Part III: Credat Judaeus Apella
Dear Bell,—I enclose what you ask in a letter,
A short rhyme at random, no more and no less,
And you may insert it, for want of a better
Or leave it, it doesn't much matter, I guess ;
And as for a tip, why, there isn't much in it,
I may hit the right nail, but first, I declare,
I haven't a notion what's going to win it
(The Champion, I mean), and what's more, I don't care.
Imprimis, there's Cowra—few nags can go quicker
Than she can—and Smith takes his oath she can fly ;
While Brown, Jones, and Robinson swear she's a sticker,
But 'credat Judaeus Apella,' say I.
There's old Volunteer, I'd be sorry to sneer
At his chance ; he'll be there, if he goes at the rate
He went at last year, when a customer queer,
Johnny Higgerson, fancied him lock'd in the straight.
I've heard that the old horse has never been fitter,
I've heard all performances past he'll outvie ;
He may gallop a docker, and finish a splitter,
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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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Mary smith
Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith,
There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith;
And though it's many years since last I saw that pretty girl,
And though I feel I'm sadly worn by Western strife and whirl;
Still, oftentimes, I think about the old familiar place,
Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary's pretty face,
And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow
I used to feel in those old times when I was Mary's beau.
I saw her home from singing school--she warbled like a bird.
A sweeter voice than hers for song or speech I never heard.
She was soprano in the choir, and I a solemn bass,
And when we unisoned our voices filled that holy place;
The tenor and the alto never had the slightest chance,
For Mary's upper register made every heart-string dance;
And, as for me, I shall not brag, and yet I'd have you know
I sung a very likely bass when I was Mary's beau.
On Friday nights I'd drop around to make my weekly call,
And though I came to visit her, I'd have to see 'em all.
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poem by Eugene Field
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Eternal Eden
Under a splendid sky of orange and grey,
Awakened a dawn as lovely as the foremost day,
And there beneath the rainbow and blueberry hills,
More beautiful than a proud peacock’s quills,
A place called Eden with endless delights,
A lush garden by day with Arcadian nights.
The Creator is the only sovereign in this land,
On every hill and valley, you can see God’s hand.
He’s loved and praised with every creature’s breath,
For by His grace, we know not the sting of death.
There are many flower blooms to brighten all life.
The birds melodious songs soothe away strife.
There’s food for the stomach and thrills for the eye,
For all God’s creatures of land, water, and sky.
We have leaves for the butterfly and nectar for the bee,
And berries for the springbok and still plenty fruit for me.
The hippo has plenty green grass with grasshoppers for the snake,
And as many fat rabbits as the hungry lion can take.
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poem by Albert Price
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The Rescue
THERE’S a sudden, fierce clang of the knocker, then the sound of a voice in the shaft,
Shrieking words that drum hard on the centres, and the braceman goes suddenly daft:
‘Set the whistle a-blowing like blazes! Billy, run, give old Mackie a call—
Run, you fool! Number Two’s gone to pieces, and Fred Baker is caught in the fall!
Say, hello! there below—any hope, boys, any chances of saving his life?
‘Heave away!’ says the knocker. ‘They’ve started. God be praised, he’s no youngsters or wife!’
Screams the whistle in fearful entreaty, and the wild echo raves on the spur,
And the night, that was still as a sleeper in soft, charmed sleep, is astir
With the fluttering of wings in the wattles, and the vague frightened murmur of birds,
With far cooeys that carry the warning, running feet, inarticulate words.
From the black belt of bush come the miners, and they gather by Mack on the brace,
Out of breath, barely clad, and half-wakened, with a question in every face.
‘Who’s below?’ ‘Where’s the fall?’ Didn’t I tell you?—Didn’t I say that them sets wasn’t sound?’
‘Is it Fred? He was reckless was Baker; now he’s seen his last shift underground.’
‘And his mate? Where is Sandy M‘Fadyn?’ ’Sandy’s snoring at home on his bunk.’
‘Not at work! Name o’ God! a foreboding?’ ‘A foreboding be hanged! He is drunk!’
Take it steady there, lads!’ the boss orders. He is white to the roots of his hair.
We may get him alive before daybreak if he’s close to the face and has air.’
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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