blonde poker forum

i often enjoy reading through poems when im playing online it helps me chill out and concentrate and at the same time keep poker in perspective. My grandad used to read me this when i was very young its a classic by Alfred Noyes.



THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    And the highwayman came riding—
                      Riding—riding—
    The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 II

    He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
    They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
                      His pistol butts a-twinkle,
    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

                                                 III

    Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
    And he tapped with his whip on the shuters, but all was locked and barred;
    He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
                      Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

                                                 IV

    And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
    Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
    But he loved the landlord's daughter,
                      The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
    Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

                                                 V

    "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
    But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
    Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
    Then look for me by moonlight,
                      Watch for me by moonlight,
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

                                                 VI

    He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
    But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
    As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
    And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
                      (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
    Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

 

                                        PART TWO

                                                 I

    He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
    And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
    When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
    A red-coat troop came marching—
                      Marching—marching—
    King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 II

    They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
    But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
    Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
    There was death at every window;
                      And hell at one dark window;
    For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

                                                 III

    They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
    They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
    "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
                      She heard the dead man say—
    Look for me by moonlight;
                      Watch for me by moonlight;
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

                                                 IV

    She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
    She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
    They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
    Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
                      Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
    The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

                                                 V

    The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
    Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
    She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
    For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
                      Blank and bare in the moonlight;
    And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

                                                 VI

        Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
    Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
    Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
    The highwayman came riding,
                      Riding, riding!
    The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

                                                 VII

    Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
    Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
    Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
    Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
                      Her musket shattered the moonlight,
    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

                                                 VIII

    He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
    Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
    Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
    How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
                      The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
    Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

                                                 IX

    Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
    With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
    Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
    When they shot him down on the highway,
                      Down like a dog on the highway,
    And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

                  *           *           *           *           *           *

                                                 X

    And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
    When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    A highwayman comes riding—
                      Riding—riding—
    A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 XI

    Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
    He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
    He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
                      Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

 

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.


"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
  Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
  And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
  And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
  He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  He chortled in his joy.


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

Can't beat Spike Milligan

Can a parrott,
Eat a carrott,
Standing on its head.
If I did that,
My mum would send me,
Straight upstairs to bed.

Class

There was a young lady from ealing
who had a particular feeling
..................................... ;)

Ted Hughes' February 17th.
The only place I could find it was in a blog, copied and pasted form there, but I'm unsure as to how the spacing works. Can't remeber if it's all supposed to be one big long stanza or not.
Have split it into 3 anyway, just to make it slightly easier on the eye.


February 17th


A lamb could not get born. Ice wind
Out of a downpour dishclout sunrise. The mother
Lay on the muddied slope. Harried, she got up
And the blackish lump bobbed at her back-end
Under her tail. After some hard galloping,
Some manoeuvering, much flapping of the backward
Lump head of the lamb looking out,
I caught her with a rope. Laid her, head uphill
And examined the lamb. A blood-ball swollen
Tight in its black felt, its mouth gap
Squashed crooked, tongue stuck out, black-purple,
Strangled by its mother. I felt inside,
Past the noose of mother-flesh, into the slippery
Muscled tunnel, fingering for a hoof,
Right back to the port-hole of the pelvis.

But there was no hoof. He had stuck his head out too early
And his feet could not follow. He should have
Felt his way, tip-toe, his toes
Tucked up under his nose
For a safe landing. So I kneeled wrestling
With her groans. No hand could squeeze past
The lamb's neck into her interior
To hook a knee. I roped that baby head
And hauled till she cried out and tried
To get up and I saw it was useless. I went
Two miles for the injection and a razor.

Sliced the lamb's throat-strings, levered with a knife
Between the vertebrae and brought the head off
To stare at its mother, its pipes sitting in the mud
With all earth for a body. Then pushed
The neck-stump right back in, and as I pushed
She pushed. She pushed crying and I pushed gasping.
And the strength
Of the birth push and the push of my thumb
Against that wobbly vertebrae were deadlock,
A to-fro futility. Till I forced
A hand past and got a knee. Then like
Pulling myself to the ceiling with one finger
Hooked in a loop, timing my effort
To her birth push groans, I pulled against
The corpse that would not come. Till it came,
And after it the long, sudden, yolk-yellow
Parcel of life
In a smothering slither of oils and soups and syrups -
And the body lay born, beside the hacked-off head.

The boy stood on the burning deck
Picking his nose like mad
he rolled them into little balls
and flicked them at his dad


The boy stood on the burning deck
having a game of cricket
the ball shot up his trouser leg
and hit his middle wicket


She stood on the bridge at midnight
her legs were all a quiver
she gave a cough, her head fell off
and floated down the river

Anyone got some good spoof angry lesbian/divorced woman/frumpy spinster man hating poetry we can have a lookie at?

On second thoughts, doesn't even have to be spoof.

Try the black feminist 'Sonia Sanchez'....Lost my copy of the anthology I saw it in 'News for Babylon' but she sounds like the stuff you're after....


I like 'The Aristocrats' and 'The Stud' by Fred Voss. Other than that, gritty urban stuff from the likes of Roger MacGough and Benjamin Zephaniah and Larkin. On a lighter note 'Palm Tree King' by John Agard and 'Ode to Knickers' by the same author :)

I Am No Good At Love

I am no good at love
My heart should be wise and free
I kill the unfortunate golden goose
Whoever it may be
With over-articulate tenderness
And too much intensity.

I am no good at love
I batter it out of shape
Suspicion tears at my sleepless mind
And gibbering like an ape,
I lie alone in the endless dark
Knowing there's no escape.

I am no good at love
When my easy heart I yield
Wild words come tumbling from my mouth
Which should have stayed concealed;
And my jealousy turns a bed of bliss
Into a battlefield.

I am no good at love
I betray it with little sins
For I feel the misery of the end
In the moment that it begins
And the bitterness of the last good-bye
Is the bitterness that wins.


Once given to me by some bloke.  It were true as well!

Finally a poem by Sir Paul McCartney:

I lay upon a grassy bank

My hands were all a quiver
I slowly removed her suspender belt
and her leg fell in the river

 rotflmfao  

I hope you don't use those terms as synonyms in everyday usage?

but this is something for you Tank, and written by a man:

'A Man in the Valley of Women'
Chris Greenhalgh

He was captured in the Valley of Women.
The manacled his ankles and chained his wrists.
His captors pinioned him.  One held his head.
Another picked up a needle and thread.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
She played the needle over a candle flame.
‘Sew your lips together!’ she laughed,
trailing a finger between his shoulder-blades.

She teased the needle through his upper lip,
And drew the flesh together with silk-twine.
He felt the pressure of her fingertips
as he nails dug deep into his spine.

Slowly they broke all the bones in his feet.
The blood was used to rouge his cheeks.
He testes made an executive toy,
his glans a novelty cork for the wine.

Seized by the throes of change, he was aware
of a contending self, radically other;
an abrupt warping, a cruel deflection
of his sex from masculine to feminine.

[....]'

Bloody Men

Bloody men are like bloody buses –
You wait for about year
And as soon as one approaches your stop
Two or three others appear.

You look at them flashing their indicators,
Offering you are ride.
You’re trying to read the destinations,
You haven’t much time to decide.

If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.
Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze
While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by
And the minutes, the hours, the days.

Wendy Cope

And Another Bloody Thing…
(after Wendy Cope)

Bloody men are like bloody cigarettes –
A habit you swear to crack,
Then you find you’ve snuck out of the office
To suck one off round the back.


Clare Pollard

The wind it whistled through the trees
and whipped to foam the once calm seas
the breakers thundered on the reef
where Sovereign Lady came to grief

She struck with a resounding crash
and boiling seas poured through the gash
the crew all ran to lower the boat
but in that sea it could not float

Long before the night had fled
Sovereign Lady's crew were dead.

T McCready Snr.


I like this poem by my dad because it has a story attached.

School was a very hit and miss affair for my dad, if my grandparents managed to stay in one place for long enough, he would go to the local school for a few weeks. When he was about 9 yrs old, his class were asked to submit a poem, my dad submitted this one.

His teacher refused to believe that he had written it and hauled him out in front of the class to berate him for submitting a poem that he had stolen from someone else, my dad insisted he had written it himself. The teacher then asked, "What would you say if I told you I had seen that poem in a book this morning?"  "I would say that you are a liar." dad replied.

The teacher put the ruler across his knuckles and told him he would have to stay in after school until he showed her where he had stolen the poem from. Of course, he could not.

Eventually the teacher had to let him go home. He never returned to that school, and he wished he had never written the poem.

 rotflmfao

Cheers Tantrum  :)up

Tank, it was really no trouble, I have decided to spare you the rest of the poem,
but if you are interested in reading them let me know, I will send you the remaining few verses.

 ;goodvevil;

I was walking down the stairs
And I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
I wish that man would go away

The Master seldom treats me right
he makes me leave my bed at night
I pander to his every whim
for I am but a slave to him

I do his bidding every day
yet still an awful toll must pay
My blind dependence brings him wealth
and in return he gives ill health

All those who serve the Master die
a needless death, and so will I
If you don't understand my plight
perhaps I'm wrong and you are right

But I guess my friend you've never been
a slave to Master Nicotine!

T McCready. (while i was still a smoker)

Encounter


We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago.  Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

Czeslaw Milosz, translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee.

gunga din......

 You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
"You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
"Hi! Slippy hitherao!
"Water, get it! Panee lao
"You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted " Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
"You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
"You put some juldee in it
"Or I'll marrow you this minute
"If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick' on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire,"
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-ranks shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water green.
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
"'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen"
"'E's chawin' up the ground,
"An' 'e's kickin' all around:
"For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink" sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone
Where it's always double drill and no canteen.
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!


Note on vernacular expressions

bhisti - water-carrier
hitherao - come here
panee lao - bring water
Harry By - O Brother
juldee - quickly
marrow - hit

Only of thee and me the nightwind sings;
    Only of us the lovers speak at sea;
The earth is full of breathless whisperings
    Only of thee and me.

Only of thee and me the forests chant;
    Only of us the stir in bush and tree;
The rain and sun inform the blossoming plant
    Only of thee and me.

Only of thee and me till all shall fade;
    Only of us the world's first thought can be;
For we are love, and heaven itself is made
    Only of thee and me

Louis Untermeyer

tank

that poem about the birth was very dark indeed:(
my best one is from a book of poems my dad gave me. i cant remeber all the words but im going to look the book out and post the rest later. i cant remember the poet


Late, too late my bird is dead
Pain is all that can be said
All my words are more than vain
To bring back his life again

There he lies apon the snow
Little bird that loved life so
Never more to wake and sing
In the budding days of spring..................................


its sad but beautiful

I used to love that poem about the higwayman when i was a kid too. Here is one of my favourites

Louis MacNeice - Bagpipe Music

It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison.

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,
Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty.

It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky,
All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,
Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.
It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,
All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture.

The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,
Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.
Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,
Said to the midwife 'Take it away; I'm through with overproduction'.

It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,
All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,
Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.
His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,
Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,
All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,
It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,
It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,
Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;
Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever,
But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.

One day of sunbathing weather this summer, please!! ;pokergods;

As i drank from the air blood pored from my eye
spilling tears on my brow as the trenches up high
saw delectable red conquer clouds in the sky

On a day when the rain armed with sleet and with hail
joined the infantry winds and a fuselier gale
i was lost in the war which was once grey and pale

I was lost in the reach of a comforting hand
as victorious red captured decadent land
and saw colourless buildings distinctively grand

I was lost in the voice of an occupied sky
as melodious guards of a cloud drifting by
shot harmonious beams lest the captured should cry

I was lost in the trees that were brave on a day
when the fiery skies burned the squaller away
and the soldiers of red vanquished urban decay

I was lost in the sky as though under a spell
of a heavenly glow formed by colours from hell
as enchantment perturbed what i once knew so well

I was lost in the reach of a housing estate
that constrained what was ripe at a cautionary rate
as this tale of the sun was resigned to its fate

For the fiery army that glowed in the sky
with its radiant smile and chivalrous eye
only captured and killed what was ready to die

As the army of darkness with squadrons of frost
led a sobering chill to to a war with a cost
I was found with the injured where once i was lost

Is that one of your poem's bolt?  Very good indeed.

First They Came for the Jews

First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.
Pastor Martin Niemöller

I like this one alot, kinda sums up whats wrong with people in todays society.

there was a young lady from jersey
.................................................
.................................................
...................................................
...................................................


cant post rest due to blonde obsenaty rules

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
    A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
    And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
    And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
    And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
    They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
    And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
    What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
    Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
    With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
    Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
    Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
    In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
    He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
    And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
    He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
    He's a man who won't

The Leader
     
I wanna be the leader
I wanna be the leader
Can I be the leader?
Can I? I can?
Promise? Promise?
Yippee I'm the leader
I'm the leader

OK what shall we do?

Roger McGough

The Death of a Scoutmaster
     
how I remember the old scoutmaster
nobody could start a camp-fire faster
I can see the old scoutmaster in the old scout hut
saying always carry a plaster
in case you cut yourself
if it doesn't happen to you it could happen to your dog
you could be chopping up the firewood
when you mistake him for a log
if it doesn't happen to your dog
it could happen to your glasses
they could be knocked to the floor
by the long arm of the law
when you're standing on the corner
and a copper on a push-bike signalling a left turn passes by
if it's a friend you need you need a friend indeed
you need a plaster
you need your money and your keys
but more than these you need a plaster
always carry a plaster the scoutmaster told us
they found one in his pocket
the day a bus ran over him.

John Hegley

The life that i have
Is all that i have
And the life that i have
Is yours

The love that i have
Of the life that i have
Is yours and yours and yours

A sleep i shall have
A rest i shall have
Yet death will be but a pause
For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours and yours


                Leo Marks

Kipling and Yeats.

IF

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!



HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

I missed this thread first time around, as I was catching up I thought I must post my favorite poem at the end.  A poem that one can lead your life by, one that warns, comforts and encourages you all at the same time. A poem I copied out whilst at school and kept in my wallet for donkeys' years. Beaten by one post!

Perhaps we ought to post this as a sticky on the PHA to reduce the bad beat stories:

And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

WISH i COULD robert but tonight was the end of a bad run.

This one always gets to me, especially when you realise the chap who wrote it died three months after he had wrote it, when his Spitfire collided with another aircraft during the second world war.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

— John Gillespie Magee, Jr

A POEM FOR THOSE OLD ENOUGH TO REMEMBER

A computer was something on TV
From a science fiction show of note
A window was something you hated to clean
And ram was the cousin of a goat.

Meg was the name of my girlfriend
And gig was a job for the nights
Now they all mean different things
And that really mega bites.

An application was for employment
A program was a TV show
A curser used profanity
A keyboard was a piano.

Memory was something that you lost with age
A CD was a bank account
And if you had a 3 inch floppy
You hoped nobody found out.

Compress was something you did to the garbage
Not something you did to a file.
And if you unzipped anything in public
You'd be in jail for awhile.

Log on was adding wood to the fire
Hard drive was a long trip on the road
A mouse pad was where a mouse lived
And a back up happened to your commode.

Cut you did with a pocket knife.
Paste you did with glue
A web was a spider's home
And a virus was the flu.

I guess I'll stick to my pad and paper
And the memory in my head
I hear nobody's been killed in a computer crash
But when it happens, they'll wish they were dead.

Abort, Retry, Ignore



Once upon a midnight dreary,
Fingers cramped and vision bleary,
System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,
Longing for the warmth of bedsheets,
Still I sat here doing spreadsheets:
Having reached the bottom line, I took a floppy from the drawer.

Typing with a steady hand,
I then invoked the "save" command
But got instead a reprimand: it read, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"
Was this some occult illusion?
Some manacal type intrusion?
These were choices Solomon himself had never faced before.

Carefully I weighed my options...
These three seemed to be the top ones.
Clearly I must now adopt one; choose: Abort, Retry, Ignore?
With my fingers pale and trembling
Slowly toward the keyboard bending,
Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored

Praying for some guarantee,
Finally I pressed a key.
But what on the screen did I see? Again "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"
I tried to catch the chips off guard -
I pressed again, but twice as hard,
But luck was just not on the cards, I saw what I had seen before.

Now I typed in desperation
Trying random combinations.
Still there came the incantation "Abort, Retry, Ignore."
There I sat, distraught, exhausted,
By my own machine accosted
getting up, I turned away and paced across the office floor.

And then I saw an awful sight
A bold and blinding flash of light
A lightening bolt that cut the night, and shook me to my very core.
The PC screen collapsed and died.
"OH NO! MY DATABASE!" I cried.
I heard a distant voice reply, "You'll see your spreadsheets...nevermore!"

To this day I do not know
The place to which our data goes.
perhaps it goes to heaven, where the angels have it stored.
But as for Productivity, well,
I fear this has gone straight to Hell.
And that's the tale I have to tell - your choice: Abort, Retry, Ignore.

Awww it wasn't aimed at you, as if it ever would. I haven't go to that board yet.

 ;hattip;

Rudyard Kipling - great at writing poems, bad at bankroll management.

An English Love Poem
(Who said British men aren't  romantic?)


Of course I love ya darling
You're a bloody top Notch bird
And when I say you're gorgeous
I mean every single word ,
So ya bum is on the big side
I  don't mind a bit of flab
It means that when I'm ready
There's somethin' there to grab,
So your belly isn't flat no more
I tell ya, I don't care
So long as when I cuddle ya
I can Get my arms round there,
No woman who is your age
Has nice round perky breasts
They just gave in to gravity
But I know  ya did ya best ,
I'm tellin ya the truth now
I  never tell ya lies
I think its very sexy
That you've got dimples  on ya thighs ,
I swear on me grannies grave now
The moment that we met
I thought you was as good as
I was ever gonna get ,
No matter wot you look like
I'll always love ya dear
Now shut up while the footballs's on
And fetch another beer

A poem by Ram (I think) when asked by a previous to write her some poetry...

On the moors there's heather and bramble,
But all I want to do is gamble.

Perfect, although rumoured not to have been to her taste...

Nancy Hanks

Nancy Hanks was the mother of Abraham Lincoln. She died in 1818 her last home was a hut with only three sides and her family was brought up in hardships we cant imagine..Lincolns father was Tom a grifter and drifter.. a truely emotional poem.. a mothers thoughts for a child she would never have seen to become one of the great men in the history of the world ..

If Nancy Hanks
came back as a ghost
seeking news
of what she loved most
she'd ask first
"where's my son?
what happened to Abe?
Whats he done?"

Poor little Abe
left all alone
except for  Tom
Who's a rolling stone
he was only nine
the year i died
i remember still how hard he cried"

scraping along
in a little shack
with hardly a shirt
to cover his back
and a prairie wind
to blow him down
or pinching times
if he went to town"

"You wouldnt know
about my son?
Did he grow tall?
Did he have fun?
Did he learn to read?
Did he get to town?
Do you know his name?
Did he get on?"
                                                   Rosemary Benet

Not really a poem ...but for inspiration it can't be beaten ..
England in the Summer of 1588. England awaits the arrival of the Spanish armada...Queen Elizabeth is at Tilbury to await the arrival of the Spanish.. numerically they are superiour.. better equipped, better trained, better paid, English troops were ill paid and under resourced what they did have was a true leader in the form of Elizabeth the first. There were rumours of assasination plots and the queen had been urged to flee.. Fleeing never entered onto Elizabeths agenda her whole life and she walked amongst her troops and delivered one of the finest speeches ever to her army to lift there morale and to show her desire to die amongst her loyal subjects.. she goes onto the field preceeded by the sword of state and flanked only by Lords Essex and Leicester, dressed in a breastplate... True greatness has been rare through history Elizabeth the firsts had that greatness and single minded devotion to her subjects and her country...
As you may have gathered I'm a fan!


My loving people,

         We have been persuaded by some that are careful of our safety, to take heed how we commit our selves to armed multitudes, for fear of treachery; but I assure you I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear, I have always so behaved myself that, under God, I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and good-will of my subjects; and therefore I am come amongst you, as you see, at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live and die amongst you all; to lay down for my God, and for my kingdom, and my people, my honour and my blood, even in the dust. I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realm; to which rather than any dishonour shall grow by me, I myself will take up arms, I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know already, for your forwardness you have deserved rewards and crowns; and We do assure you in the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you. In the mean time, my lieutenant general2 shall be in my stead, than whom never prince commanded a more noble or worthy subject; not doubting but by your obedience to my general, by your concord in the camp, and your valour in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over those enemies of my God, of my kingdom, and of my people.

Late in the day news came through of the defeat of the Armada by Drake

 

Shakespeare's version of a rousing speech:

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Most poems rhyme
This one doesn't

One of the greatest - Tam 'O Shanter:

Tam o' Shanter (Original)
When chapmen billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet,
As market days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame.
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonie lasses.)

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale:-- Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither--
They had been fou for weeks thegither!
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter
And ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
wi' favours secret,sweet and precious
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy!
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious.
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You sieze the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white--then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.--
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg--
A better never lifted leg--
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire;
Despisin' wind and rain and fire.
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares:
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare, in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Chairlie brak 's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.--
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll:
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!--
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight

Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent-new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He scre'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.--
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some develish cantraip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light.--
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murders's banes in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi blude red-rusted;
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which even to name was be unlawfu'.
Three lawyers' tongues, turn'd inside out,
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout;
Three priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinking, vile in every neuk.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,
A' plump and strapping in their teens,
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen!
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping and flinging on a crummock,
I wonder did na turn thy stomach!

But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie,
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie,-
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for he wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was, and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main;
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason ' thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy commin'!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane o' the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle -
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail;
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

No, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed;
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think! ye may buy joys o'er dear -
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

And translated!!

Tam o' Shanter (Translation)
When the peddler people leave the streets,
And thirsty neighbours, neighbours meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to take the road home,
While we sit boozing strong ale,
And getting drunk and very happy,
We don’t think of the long Scots miles,
The marshes, waters, steps and stiles,
That lie between us and our home,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame (wife),
Gathering her brows like a gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath, to keep it warm.

This truth finds honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he from Ayr one night did canter;
Old Ayr, which never a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonny lasses.

Oh Tam, had you but been so wise,
As to have taken your own wife Kate’s advice!
She told you well you were a waster,
A rambling, blustering, drunken boaster,
That from November until October,
Each market day you were not sober;
That instead of milling with the miller,
You sat as long as you had money,
For every horse he put a shoe on,
The blacksmith and you got roaring drunk on;
That at the Lords House, even on Sunday,
You drank with Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied, that, late or soon,
You would be found deep drowned in Doon,
Or caught by warlocks in the murk,
By Alloway’s old haunted church.

Ah, gentle ladies, it makes me cry,
To think how many counsels sweet,
How much long and wise advice
The husband from the wife despises!

But to our tale :- One market night,
Tam was seated just right,
Next to a fireplace, blazing finely,
With creamy ales, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Cobbler Johnny,
His ancient, trusted, thirsty crony;
Tom loved him like a very brother,
They had been drunk for weeks together.
The night drove on with songs and clatter,
And every ale was tasting better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
With secret favours, sweet and precious;
The cobbler told his queerest stories;
The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:
Outside, the storm might roar and rustle,
Tam did not mind the storm a whistle.

Strange to see a man so happy,
Even have drowned himself in his ale.
As bees fly home with loads of treasure,
The minutes winged their way with pleasure:
Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious,
Over all the ills of life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread:
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow fall on the river,
A moment white - then melts forever,
Or like the Aurora Borealis rays,
That move before you can point to where they're placed;
Or like the rainbow’s lovely form,
Vanishing amid the storm.
No man can tether time or tide,
The hour approaches Tom must ride:
That hour, of night’s black arch - the key-stone,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in
And such a night he takes to the road in
As never a poor sinner had been out in.

The wind blew as if it had blown its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The sspeedy gleams the darkness swallowed,
Loud, deep and long the thunder bellowed:
That night, a child might understand,
The Devil had business on his hand.

Well mounted on his grey mare, Meg.
A better never lifted leg,
Tom, raced on through mud and mire,
Despising wind and rain and fire;
Whilst holding fast his good blue bonnet,
While crooning over some old Scots sonnet,
Whilst glowering round with prudent care,
Lest ghosts catch him unaware:
Alloway’s Church was drawing near,
Where ghosts and owls nightly cry.

By this time he was across the ford,
Where in the snow the pedlar got smothered;
And past the birch trees and the huge stone,
Where drunken Charlie broke his neck bone;
And through the thorns, and past the monument,
Where hunters found the murdered child;
And near the thorn, above the well,
Where Mungo’s mother hung herself.
Before him the river Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars throught the woods;
The lightnings flashes from pole to pole;
Nearer and more near the thunder rolls;
When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
Alloway’s Church seemed in a blaze,
Through every gap , light beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn! (whisky)
What dangers you can make us scorn!
With ale, we fear no evil;
With whisky, we’ll face the Devil!
The ales so swam in Tam’s head,
Fair play, he didn’t care a farthing for devils.
But Maggie stood, right sore astonished,
Till, by the heel and hand admonished,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, wow! Tom saw an incredible sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance:
No cotillion, brand new from France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
In a window alcove in the east,
There sat Old Nick, in shape of beast;
A shaggy dog, black, grim, and large,
To give them music was his charge:
He screwed the pipes and made them squeal,
Till roof and rafters all did ring.
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That showed the dead in their last dresses;
And, by some devilish magic sleight,
Each in its cold hand held a light:
By which heroic Tom was able
To note upon the holy table,
A murderer’s bones, in gibbet-irons;
Two span-long, small, unchristened babies;
A thief just cut from his hanging rope -
With his last gasp his mouth did gape;
Five tomahawks with blood red-rusted;
Five scimitars with murder crusted;
A garter with which a baby had strangled;
A knife a father’s throat had mangled -
Whom his own son of life bereft -
The grey-hairs yet stack to the shaft;
With more o' horrible and awful,
Which even to name would be unlawful.
Three Lawyers’ tongues, turned inside out,
Sown with lies like a beggar’s cloth -
Three Priests’ hearts, rotten, black as muck
Lay stinking, vile, in every nook.

As Thomas glowered, amazed, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they linked,
Till every witch sweated and smelled,
And cast her ragged clothes to the floor,
And danced deftly at it in her underskirts!

Now Tam, O Tam! had these been queens,
All plump and strapping in their teens!
Their underskirts, instead of greasy flannel,
Been snow-white seventeen hundred linen! -
The trousers of mine, my only pair,
That once were plush, of good blue hair,
I would have given them off my buttocks
For one blink of those pretty girls !

But withered hags, old and droll,
Ugly enough to suckle a foal,
Leaping and flinging on a stick,
Its a wonder it didn’t turn your stomach!

But Tam knew what was what well enough:
There was one winsome, jolly wench,
That night enlisted in the core,
Long after known on Carrick shore
(For many a beast to dead she shot,
And perished many a bonnie boat,
And shook both barley corn and beer,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her short underskirt, o’ Paisley cloth,
That while a young lass she had worn,
In longitude though very limited,
It was her best, and she was proud. . .
Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother,
That skirt she bought for her little grandaughter,
With two Scots pounds (it was all her riches),
Would ever graced a dance of witches!

But here my tale must stoop and bow,
Such words are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie leaped and kicked
(A supple youth she was, and strong);
And how Tom stood like one bewitched,
And thought his very eyes enriched;
Even Satan glowered, and fidgeted full of lust,
And jerked and blew with might and main;
Till first one caper, then another,
Tom lost his reason all together,
And roars out: ‘ Well done, short skirt! ’
And in an instant all was dark;
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees buzz out with angry wrath,
When plundering herds assail their hive;
As a wild hare’s mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts running before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When ‘ Catch the thief! ’ resounds aloud:
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
With many an unearthly scream and holler.

Ah, Tom! Ah, Tom! You will get what's coming!
In hell they will roast you like a herring!
In vain your Kate awaits your coming !
Kate soon will be a woeful woman!
Now, do your speedy utmost, Meg,
And beat them to the key-stone of the bridge;
There, you may toss your tale at them,
A running stream they dare not cross!
But before the key-stone she could make,
Not a tail she had to shake;
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,
And flew at Tam with furious aim;
But little was she Maggie’s mettle!
One spring brought off her master whole,
But left behind her own grey tail:
The witch caught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, who this tale of truth shall read,
Each man, and mother’s son, take heed:
Whenever to drink you are inclined,
Or short skirts run in your mind,
Think! you may buy joys over dear:
Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.

<link deleted>

oops I thought it was "put your favourite porn here".

I really will have to buy those glasses........

Quite liked this one, Poe's The Raven rewritten as a limerick

The Raven

There once was a girl named Lenore
And a bird and a bust and a door
And a guy with depression
And a whole lot of questions
And the bird always says "Nevermore."

 
 Life!!

 
Life is like your darkest fears,
Your hidden zombies really near,
Your monsters start to shadow you,
As darkness overthrows your view.
You cannot see, you cannot hear,
A hidden hole, you disappear
You’ve reached hidden depths below,
The hole goes on but time moves slow.
When will the nightmare ever be stopped?
When darkness fades and out light pops,
Is when I’m over all my fears,
The ghosts & ghouls will go away,
So I can live a carefree day!



This poem makes me very sad but its still my favourite,my daughter as many of you already know has SLE.  She is currently in hospital will Lupus Nephritis.  She is ill and all I can do is keep reading her poetry.

roses are red
violets a blue
I'm a schizophrenic
and so am i


i went down the market with my uncle jim
and someone threw a tomatoe at him
tomatoes are soft and dont brake the skin
but this foker did it was still in a tin.,,,,.,.,.

Nice one pffa... very nice ... theres hope in the poem too though ...l

I like this one which was found carved on the door of an old public convenience:

Here lay I broken-hearted

Paid a penny and only farted.

Tiddles
by Adrian Legg
from the otherwise instrumental and stunning acoustic guitar album fingers and thumbs

My auntie Nell noticed a smell coming from inside the shed.
She opened the door and there on the floor was Tiddles the cat, quite dead.

His fur was no longer glossy and sleek;
he’d obviously been there for more than a week.

Those eyes that had blazed were now rather glazed;
his former ferocity had lost its velocity–
his aggressive propensities had lost their intensities.

He owed his demise to a strategic prize:
a quest for a tactical edge that was practical in the war on the Dalmatian next door,
whose advantage of size would be less with surprise.

A furious dash! A vicious slash across the snout!
A quick about and a rapid retreat ‘ere the dog gained his feet,
back to the hole in the side of the shed from whence the guerrilla war would commence.

There was no fence between the pair, at the point where the shed then stood.
One day an attack was decided. The Dalmatian next door was derided.
Tail in the air Tiddles stalked round the wall and sprayed on the carpet that graced next door’s hall.

Then entered the shed through the open door and lay on the floor to lurk and to smirk
and prepare his attack while the dog had a smack for letting the cat in to pee on the mat.

But Tiddles was reckless; his planning was feckless.
The door closed behind him and no-one could find him.
The hole had been covered! Next door had discovered the dog’s bloodied snout
and the secret way out. They couldn’t take that; the cat was in trouble–
they plugged up the gap with a pile of rubble.

Our hero was trapped and e’en though he napped to save strength,
and then wailed at great length,
the garden activities and leisure proclivities of Nell and her tribe made them deaf to appeals…
until his squeals weakened and passed,
as he starved
at the last.

and laid there all stiff
until finally the whiff
of his decomposition
laid plain his condition
proclaimed his location
and last tribulation

They buried him quick, but not very deep,
and a dreadful trick disturbed his last sleep.
Next door’s Dalmatian achieved excavation!
A rude exhumation that prompted cremation.

Now times, when it’s windy, Tiddles’ chindy
will prowl in the night in search of a fight
and howl at the light when the moon is bright.

And next door’s Dalmation, still at his station lets a tear fall and splash on the floor.
His foe was so small but waged such a war — he got into Valhalla for deeds of great valor.
No mean feat, for a creature so neat. Besides, Norsemen have feelings, and were not just horsemen with dealings in might;
they too need creatures that purr in their lap: gentle in features, appealing, and light.

And Tiddles in glory will long tell his story:
“Tiddles the Bold!” in letters of gold will hang in the sky for every cat’s eye
to see and remember that day in September when Tiddles discovered the hole had been covered

and the ninth of his lives
was finally
smothered

 rotflmfao

The sky was dark
The moon was high
All alone just she and I
Her hair was soft
Her eyes were blue
I knew just what
She wanted to do
Her skin so soft
Her legs so fine
I ran my fingers
Down her spine
I didn't know how
But I tried my best
I started by placing
My hands on her breast
I remember my fear
My fast beating heart
But slowly she spread
Her legs apart
And when I did it
I felt no shame
All at once
The white stuff came
At last it's finished
It's all over now
My first time ever
At milking a cow...

Mid-term Break (caution: sad)

I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close,
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on the left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in a cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, a foot for every year.

Seamus Heaney

Almost 23 years ago my daughter was born by c section 5 weeks prem. After she was out of danger I came home elated and wrote this in about 20/30 mins. It's pretty raw but although I could improve it I decided to keep it as it was.

Samantha

Nineteen hours in labour
Nineteen hour in pain
For the birth of a daughter
Samantha is her name

You couldn't wait no longer
To step into this land
Now best you thank the surgeon
Who gave you a helping hand

Your breathing was eratic
Your lungs were immature
But thanks to all the lovely staff
The problems they did cure

Now you have slight jaundice
So on goes the light
To take away the yellow
Girl you've got some fight

Now it's the fourth day
Oxygen and drip removed
Mum has been a little sad
But now her heart is soothed

She holds you for the first time
You've made you mothers day
Away with all the anguish
Worry and dismay

Can't wait to take you home now
Everything is ready
All your clothes, your pram and things
And yes, a cuddly teady

Both Mum and Dad are proud of you
Their love they cannot hid
Listen, your life is just beginning
Take it in your stride.



Sam with her daughter Grace.

(http://i234.photobucket.com/albums/ee61/Bloot58/DSCN1301.jpg)

lovely stuff, thanks for sharing

Ladles and jellyspoons,

I come before you
to stand behind you
and tell you something
I know nothing about.

Next Thursday,
the day after Friday,
there will be a ladies' meeting
for men only.
 
Wear your best clothes,
if you haven't any,
and if you can come,
please stay home.

Admission is free,
you can pay at the door.
We'll give you a seat,
so you can sit on the floor.

It makes no difference
where you sit,
the kid in the gallery
is sure to spit."

lolz. Nice one.

These are totally craaaaaaaap:

YouTube: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=ct3m5nJ5kf8

But in a good way. World's best bad poet.

The simple things in life are the best :)

You got a good eye for fun WYSINWYG :)

A little dated but I still rather like it as it reminds me of the first time I went.......Beasley Street is another that almost got it but it was written about a society run by the Tories....strangely still resonant though


m a j o r c a

fasten your seatbelts says a voice
inside the plane you can't hear no noise
engines made by rolls royce
take your choice
...make mine majorca
check out the parachutes
can't be found
alert those passengers
they'll be drowned
a friendly mug says "settle down"
when i came round i was gagged and bound
...for Majorca
and the eyes caress
the neat hostess
her unapproachable flip finesse
i found the meaning of the word excess
they've got little bags if you wanna make a mess
i fancied Cuba but it cost me less
...to Majorca
(Whose blonde sand fondly kisses the cool fathoms of the blue mediteranean)
they packed us into the white hotel
you could still smell the polycell
wet white paint in the air-conditioned cells
the waiter smelled of fake Chanel
Gaulois... Garlic as well
says if i like... i can call him "Miguel"
...well really
i got drunk with another fella
who'd just brought up a previous paella
he wanted a fight but said they were yella'
...in Majorca
the guitars rang and the castinets clicked
the dancer's stamped and the dancer's kicked
it's likely if you sang in the street you'd be nicked
the double diamond flowed like sick
mother's pride, tortilla and chips
pneumatic drills when you try to kip
...in Majorca
a stomach infection put me in the shade
must have been something in the lemonade
but by the balls of franco i paid
had to pawn my bucket and spade
next year I'll take the international brigade
...to Majorca

+1

Genius

Geo

Wow, the tanks's February 17th was amazing and very dark.

My fav is the one I learned at school for o grade english.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs 
And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! –  An ecstasy of fumbling, 
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; 
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, 
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . 
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, 
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 
Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; 
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, 
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory, 
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est 
Pro patria mori.