Quotes about strut, page 9
A Mediocre Man
I'm just a mediocre man
Of no high-brow pretence;
A comfortable life I plan
With care and commonsense.
I do the things most people do,
I echo what they say;
And through my morning paper view
The problems of the day.
No doubt you think I'm colourless,
Profoundly commonplace;
And yet I fancy, more or less,
I represent the race.
My name may stand for everyone,
At least for nine in ten,
For all in all the world is run
By mediocre men.
Of course you'll maybe not agree
That you are average,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert William Service
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Cute Little Dog Achilles
ACHILLES IS A CUTE DOG WHO IS BLACK AND GOLD,
HE LOOKS LIKE A PUPPY BUT HE’S 9 YEARS OLD!
HE IS VERY SPUNKY FOR HE HAS A LITTLE STRUT,
HE IS VERY ORIGINAL LOOKING NOT YOUR AVERAGE MUT.
HE IS HALF POMERANIAN AND LONG HAIRED CHIWAWA,
HE DOESN’T BARK MUCH OR GO “BOW WOW”.
HIS OWNER LAUREN IS AFRAID OF HIM BEING OUT OF HER SIGHT,
SHE KNOWS HE MIGHT GET WHISKED AWAY DAY OR NIGHT.
PEOPLE FIND HIM ADORABLE AND GIVE HIM TREATS,
EVERYONE LOVES TO PET HIM, HE IS REALLY SWEET.
NOW IF YOU SEE HIM WITH LAUREN, STOP AND SAY “HI”
TAKE A PHOTO OF HIM FOR HE IS THE CUTEST LOOKING DOG ALIVE.
WRITTEN BY SUZAE CHEVALIER ON JANUARY 5,2012
www.suechevalier.com www.krendoll.co
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Shall I Tell You A Story?
Shall I tell you a story about a mouse
That lived in the wall of a very old house?
He dined on scraps that fell from the table
And dodged the cat whenever he was able.
Shall I tell you a story about a cat
Who sat by the fire, on a lovely warm mat?
He'd prowl the house with a haughty strut,
But would stay out of range of the yapping mutt!
Shall I tell you a story about a pup,
Who next to his master's feet would curl up?
A more faithful friend you never will see.
His name 'True Blue' fits him to a tee!
Shall I tell you a story about a man
Who muddles along the best that he can,
With his dog, and his cat, and even the mouse?
Contented, they stay in that ramshackle house.
poem by Dawn Ferrett
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Risqué Limerick # 2
From the top of Niagara Falls,
far away from the big city malls
jumped a tough-talking bird
soon her screams could be heard
as she banged on those rocks her big balls.
There are women, genetically tough,
fully able to fight and play rough.
Though they may play with dolls
they are fitted with balls,
be advised that they do strut their stuff.
So the one who had jumped from that height
gave the onlooking folks quite a fright.
When the balls started banging
and bouncing and clanging
they felt sorry for her in her plight.
When she landed way down in the wet
it was clear that she'd now won her bet.
[...] Read more
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Half-Heard, Half-Seen
A half-heard gasp, and I go clothed to the tooth,
Of the night there is an empty market,
And now in imagination the fortnight arrives
Which is more or less obsolete.
The elemental forces are rather chaotic
In our endeavours and misdemeanours.
Upon the tiles we strut and walk haphazardly,
Finding what we have climbed in the thoughts.
As a result, seas make an act of burning and gasping,
Of herds of buffalo, of independent objects that slay
As the mighty ones more deadly.
My gasping is for you, my riding is for your belly,
Much deserved is your freedom, for we worry
From results of the melodies that are old.
My half-seen wonders amass, at hand I know
The actions and words of the ideal company.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Background
You wish to find something in my background,
To soundly pound into the surrounding ground?
I've tested and teased and experimented too.
There is nothing that I hide,
In my background from you.
In fact my honesty may be more than you believe.
Every hair on my butt has been inspected for all to see.
And I keep in shape...
Just in case,
I am dared to moon!
My dignity I pride.
With an identity I trust!
But if you must probe into my background...
You can begin with my butt!
I am told it is one of my assets.
And I know that when I strut!
Proud am I to be so blessed...
With an abundance of 'gifts'
I shared and love to give...
With a less expected arresting seriousness,
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Le Jardin Des Tuileries
This winter air is keen and cold,
And keen and cold this winter sun,
But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk
The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
Her book, they steal across the square,
And launch their paper navies where
Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee,
And now they rush, a boisterous band -
And, tiny hand on tiny hand,
Climb up the black and leafless tree.
[...] Read more
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The Law Of Laws
If we could roll back History
A century, let's say,
And start from there, I'm sure that we
Would find things as to-day:
In all creation's cosmic range
No vestige of a change.
Turn back a thousand years, the same
Unchangement we would view;
Cause and Effect their laws proclaim,
The truest of the true,
And in life's mechanistic groove
The Universe would move.
Grim is the grip of the Machine
And everything we do
Designed implacably has been
Since earth was virgin new:
We strut our parts as they were writ,--
That's all there is to it.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert William Service
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Dictator
Saddam Hussein you didn’t see they played you for a fool, king
today because it suited them, then surplus of requirement;
they hanged you from the rafters as you should be a common
Baghdad thief. They let you strut about dressed in uniform and
all, and you didn’t detect their sniggering voices when they
called you” your Excellency.” You knew in the end, but then it
was too late, yet you made them see how to die with dignity.
Had you been less ambitious you could still be selling cigarettes
by the oil docks and not be reduced to an historical footnote;
and your sons could been selling fake Swiss watches, condoms
and illegal whisky. A proper New Jersey gangster family be, in
the Middle East, eating goat chops every Sunday afternoon.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Forgotten Dictator
Saddam Hussein you didn’t see they played you for a fool, king
today because it suited them, then surplus of requirement;
they hanged you from the rafters as you should be a common
Baghdad thief. They let you strut about dressed in uniform and
all, and you didn’t detect their sniggering voices when they
called you” your Excellency.” You knew in the end, but then it
was too late, yet you made them see how to die with dignity.
Had you been less ambitious you could still be selling cigarettes
by the oil docks and not be reduced to an historical footnote;
and your sons could been selling fake Swiss watches, condoms
and illegal whisky. A proper New Jersey gangster family be, in
the Middle East, eating goat chops every Sunday afternoon.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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