Quotes about foxy, page 4
What is It Really?
Was it your smile or your pretty face?
Thoughts of you my love I cannot seem to erase
For you my love transcend known time and space
I’m yearning your tenderness and your loving warm embrace
A life without you I could not stand at all
I am an addict now suffering from withdrawal
Take me for I submit to you ever so humbly
I need you desperately for my summers are turning wintery
You are my shining light that illuminates the night
When you are with me everything feels all right
You make the flowers grow in midwinter's snow
For anywhere you go now I shall surely follow
Is it the way you speak that makes me feel so weak?
Is it your shining hair lying across your back so sleek?
Is it the cloths you wear that make men stop and stare?
Preciouses you are to me for we are truly a pair
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poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Brooklyn 'Extended
Beautiful culture
Parks, brownstones, cheesecake, and BAM
Home away from home.
Children museums
Legends of Dodgers,
And Masonic lodges.
Blocks and bodegas,
24 hour beer and food;
A Non sleeping borough.
Pharmaceuticals!
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poem by Josephe Buchanan
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a letter from Patty and Ray
It is time for us to leave San Diego
and head back to Portland
starting on Valentines Day.
I hear it has been snowing in Portland,
I guess that rules out outdoor yoga classes.
That doesn’t sound good compared
to San Diego where it is usually sunny
and the activities included yoga,
aerobics, tennis, biking to shop,
kayaking, and fish tacos.
We have a great spot here
at Campland with a water view out front.
It is much nicer
than last year because
no one is occupying
the spots on either side of us.
We brought nicer bikes
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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After the Funeral (In memory of Ann Jones)
After the funeral, mule praises, brays,
Windshake of sailshaped ears, muffle-toed tap
Tap happily of one peg in the thick
Grave's foot, blinds down the lids, the teeth in black,
The spittled eyes, the salt ponds in the sleeves,
Morning smack of the spade that wakes up sleep,
Shakes a desolate boy who slits his throat
In the dark of the coffin and sheds dry leaves,
That breaks one bone to light with a judgment clout'
After the feast of tear-stuffed time and thistles
In a room with a stuffed fox and a stale fern,
I stand, for this memorial's sake, alone
In the snivelling hours with dead, humped Ann
Whose hodded, fountain heart once fell in puddles
Round the parched worlds of Wales and drowned each sun
(Though this for her is a monstrous image blindly
Magnified out of praise; her death was a still drop;
She would not have me sinking in the holy
Flood of her heart's fame; she would lie dumb and deep
And need no druid of her broken body).
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poem by Dylan Thomas
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When, Like a Running Grave
When, like a running grave, time tracks you down,
Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs,
Love in her gear is slowly through the house,
Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse,
Hauled to the dome,
Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age,
Deliver me who timid in my tribe,
Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap
Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape
Of the bone inch
Deliver me, my masters, head and heart,
Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin,
When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time
Drive children up like bruises to the thumb,
From maid and head,
For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove,
Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye,
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poem by Dylan Thomas
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My Twenty-Four Plus One More
How I love twenty-five
From her hips to her lips
How I worship twenty-five
From her nose to her dainty toes
I love twenty-five
From her eyes to her thighs
I really love twenty-five
From her hair to everywhere
I admire twenty-five
From her footwear to her underwear
I live for twenty-five
Seven days twenty-four she I adore
I love and desire my twenty-five
From her hands to her fingers she’s a winner
Twenty-five is the answer to all my payers
She’s as refreshing as pure spring waters
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poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Alphabet Poem
A was once an ant,
Tiny,
Busy,
Speedy,
Shiny
In the groundy
Little ant!
A was once a little ant,
Antsy
Fantsy
Mantsy
Antsy,
Fa ntsy anty,
Little ant!
B was once a little bat,
Batsy,
Watsy,
Fatsy,
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poem by Edward Lear
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Man and Dog
''Twill take some getting.' 'Sir, I think 'twill so.'
The old man stared up at the mistletoe
That hung too high in the poplar's crest for plunder
Of any climber, though not for kissing under:
Then he went on against the north-east wind--- Straight but lame, leaning on a staff new-skinned, Carrying a brolly, flag-basket, and old coat,---
Towards Alto, ten miles off. And he had not
Done less from Chilgrove where he pulled up docks. 'Twere best, if he had had 'a money-box',
To have waited there till the sheep cleared a field
For what a half-week's flint-picking would yield.
His mind was running on the work he had done
Since he left Christchurch in the New Forest, one
Spring in the 'seventies,---navvying on dock and line From Southampton to Newcastle-on-Tyne,---
In 'seventy-four a year of soldiering
With the Berkshires,---hoeing and harvesting
In half the shires where corn and couch will grow.
His sons, three sons, were fighting, but the hoe
And reap-hook he liked, or anything to do with trees.
He fell once from a poplar tall as these:
The Flying Man they called him in hospital.
'If I flew now, to another world I'd fall.'
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poem by Edward Thomas
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Judgment Day
Saint Peter stood, at Heaven's gate,
All souls claims to adjudicate
Saying to some souls, 'Enter in!'
'Go to Hell,' to others, 'you are steeped in sin.'
When up from earth, with a great hubbub,
Came all the members of the Tuscarora Club.
The angel Gabriel, peering out,
Said, 'What, the devil, is this noise about?'
'Gabe,' said Peter, 'There's always lots of noise,
At any get-together of the Tuscarora boys -
Those are anglers and they all tell lies
About the trout that got away, their fierceness and their size -
They want to enter Heaven, for our brooks are full of trout,
But I won't have any liars, and I'll keep the whole gang out;
No liars enter Heaven, and I'll most distinctly tell
The whole danged Tuscarora Club, it has to go to Hell.'
Then, at a little distance from the precious pearly gate,
The Tuscarora fellows paused to talk and cogitate;
One Barr said this, one Barr said that, McAlpin had his say,
But foxy Charley Roberts said, 'This is the only way -
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poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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~****economic Racism ****~
A white man english.
Proud to be a cleaner of london streets
The woman scott marched off his bed since decade or two
For a truck drivers christ sake
Since then nobody accepted the ageing man with time
Complained buddhists being devoid of balls and hindus have caste system
But i doubted why then no renowned solicitor from chancery lane or a member
of british parliament do not open white arms of snow that he brings in summer
I did put him in thought until one day his fingers fell on a fish
A girl who resembles a children from philippines
poor she is reared up, more poor her innocence
to be victim of coming to england thinking the roads of britain
to be laid on stones which when touched become gold with english residence
Something to never happen for her trust of being just eighteen in disdain and chastity dishonoured
by this man before the foxy shackles of legal bills
But he claims still he is not a paedophile
what the other day he said as racist slurs on a silent rally of muslims to play agile
Now he dies.Owing to burdened health.
For his ritual his claimed son from an unknown mother has no time from countng chickens and eggs
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poem by Amit Ray
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