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Quotes about hire, page 4

Killer For Hire

On a night time ride
Find that nothing's left.
Not a thing in sight.
I’m going to my death.

Cut a deal with the Devil,
I’m signing my name,
Cuz I figure I’m going to Hell
Anyway.

Bringin’ my fire, Bringin’ my sword
I’m gonna fight you know.
I won’t be ignored,
Gonna rock and roll.

Ready, aim, fire
I’m a killer for hire.
(FIRE)
Killer for hire.

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How Am I Qualified?

How am I qualified?
I would not be selected,
To be in your presence!
What experience do I have?
Has anything you verified,
Been connected or tied to corruption?
My life is based on 'fact'...
Not on created lies!
I am here to replace a mess,
I did not create.
I am here to achieve...
Not sit around and fake!
What did I like about my last position?
Leaving it in a better condition.
What did I dislike and why?
Being surrounded by incompetence.
And being around people who made no sense...
And got paid.
Proving I can correct mistakes,
Others had made.

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Geoffrey Chaucer

The Canterbury Tales; Prologue

Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-

So priketh hem Nature in hir corages-
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende

Of Engelond, to Caunturbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for the seke

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Spring-tide

Lenten ys come with love to toune,
With blosmen and with briddes roune,
That al this blisse bryngeth;
Dayes-eyes in this dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales,
Uch foul song singeth;
The threstelcoc him threteth oo,
Away is huere wynter wo,
When woderove springeth;
Thise foules singeth ferly fele,
Ant wlyteth on huere wunne wele,
That all the wode ryngeth.

The rose rayleth hire rode,
The leves on the lyhte wode
Waxen al with wille;
The mone mandeth hire bleo,
The lilie is lossom to seo,
The fenyl and the fille;
Wowes thise wilde drakes,

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Spring-tide

LENTEN ys come with love to toune,
With blosmen ant with briddes roune,
   That al this blisse bryngeth;
Dayes-eyes in this dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales,
   Vch foul song singeth;
The threstlecoc him threteth oo,
Away is huere wynter wo,
   When woderove springeth;
This foules singeth ferly fele,
Ant wlyteth on huere winter wele,
   That al the wode ryngeth.

The rose rayleth hire rode,
The leves on the lyhte wode
   Waxen al with wille;
The mone mandeth hire bleo,
The lilie is lossom to seo,
   The fenyl ant the fille;
Wowes this wilde drakes,

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Blow, Northern Wind

Blow, northerne wynd,
Send thou me my suetyng!
Blow, northerne wynd,
Blou, blou, blou!

Ichot a burde in bour{.e} bryht,
That fully semly is on syht,
Menskful maiden of myht,
Feir ant fre to fond{.e};
In al this wurhlich{.e} won,
A burde of blod and of bon
Never yete y nust{.e} non
Lussomore in lond{.e}.

With lokk{.e}s lefliche and long{.e},
With frount and fac{.e} feir to fong{.e},
With murth{.e}s moni{.e} mote heo mong{.e},
That brid so breme in bour{.e};
With lossom ey{.e}, grete ant god{.e},
With browen blysfol under hod{.e};

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Soul For Hire

Hang my head and shut my eyes
What kind of justice is this?
Fool I was, I thought that you fought fire with fire
Got to me more than just a soul for hire
Speaking for myself I wouldn't take the fame, the fees, the glory
For whoring in the practice of the law
I make my case stop and stutter
Soul comes unglued from the uppers
Blood is seeping in the hole
A mother's eye is weeping
I see every human kind
And still the truth is distant
I see every evil men do and desire
Got to be more then just a soul for hire
When it's time to give protection
To the ones who need it most, who are desperate
I get distracted from my job
Streams of ink and piles of paper
What are the breaks?
Jump out the window? Parole? Escape?

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Whatever It Takes

Well, I've been drawing little hearts in the morning paper
Lookin' for a house an' a couple of acres
You'll be mine some time, sooner or later and I can't wait
Like a busy ol' bee savin' up it's honey
Honey I'm savin' up all my money
To have you I'll do anything I have to, whatever it takes
Whatever it takes to win your love
I hire me an airplane, have it paint your name up in the sky above
I tell the world I'm yours, put it on a billboard out on the interstate
If it takes forever to get us together
Honey I'll do whatever it takes.
Well I've been yellin' your name from a lookout mountain
Tossing my pennies in a downtown fountain
Makin' my wishes I'm hopin' they're countin' for love's sake
I swim upstream in a ragin' river
Walk through fire do you get the picture
I swear I bare anything to get there Whatever it takes
Whatever it takes to win your love
I hire me an airplane, have it paint your name up in the sky above
I tell the world I'm yours, put it on a billboard out on the interstate

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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 07

Treuthe herde telle herof, and to Piers sente
To taken his teme and tilien the erthe,
And purchaced hym a pardoun a pena et a culpa
For hym and for hyse heirs for ever oore after-

And bad hym holde hym at home and erien hise Ieyes,
And alle that holpen hym to erye, to sette or to sowe,
or any [man]er mestier that myghte Piers availe -
Pardon with Piers Plowman Truthe hath ygraunted.
Kynges and knyghtes that kepen Holy Chirche
And rightfully in remes rulen the peple,
Han pardon thorugh purgatorie to passen ful lightly,
With patriarkes and prophetes in paradis to be felawe.
Bysshopes yblessed, if thei ben as thei sholde
Legistres of bothe lawes, the lewed therwith to preche,
And in as muche as thei mowe amenden alle synfulle,
Arn peres with the Apostles - this pardon Piers sheweth -
And at the day of dome at the heighe deys to sitte.
Marchaunts in the margyne hadde manye yeres,
Ac noon A pena et a culpa the Pope nolde hem graunte.

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Geoffrey Chaucer

The Canterbury Tales; The Phisiciens Tale

Heere folweth the Phisiciens tale.

Ther was, as telleth Titus Livius,
A knyght that called was Virginius,
Fulfild of honour and of worthynesse,
And strong of freendes, and of greet richesse.
This knyght a doghter hadde by his wyf,

No children hadde he mo in al his lyf.
Fair was this mayde in excellent beautee
Aboven every wight that man may see.
For Nature hath with sovereyn diligence
Yformed hir in so greet excellence,

As though she wolde seyn, 'Lo, I, Nature,
Thus kan I forme and peynte a creature
Whan that me list; who kan me countrefete?
Pigmalion noght, though he ay forge and bete,
Or grave, or peynte, for I dar wel seyn

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