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Hell.
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I didn't send a postcard but I did bring back a couple of photos.
http://s1.postimg.org/s0qu1whgf/img2...5_17541831.jpg http://s1.postimg.org/emicjm067/img2...5_17554126.jpg Taken on my last trip to the US in 2004. Seems like yesterday. |
So you're the one! I tried to take a picture of that and the camera flashed, "It's been done" on the screen. :eyebrow:
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In Iceland children who don't do their chores don't get new clothes for Christmas,
and children without new clothes might be eaten by the Christmas cat. As with any translated poem, it doesn't flow as smoothly as in the language it's written. But the last eight lines sold me. ;) |
Nothing like a little Christmas pussy to lighten the mood...
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For the Cellar
You Came, Too
I came to the crowd seeking friends I came to the crowd seeking love I came to the crowd for understanding I found you I came to the crowd to weep I came to the crowd to laugh You dried my tears You shared my happiness I went from the crowd seeking you I went from the crowd seeking me I went from the crowd forever You came, too by Sara Teasdale |
The Duel by Eugene Field The gingham dog and the calico cat Side by side on the table sat; ‘T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) Nor one nor t’ other had slept a wink! The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate Appeared to know as sure as fate There was going to be a terrible spat. (I was n’t there; I simply state What was told to me by the Chinese plate!) The gingham dog went “Bow-wow-wow!” And the calico cat replied “Mee-ow!” The air was littered, an hour or so, With bits of gingham and calico, While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place Up with its hands before its face, For it always dreaded a family row! (Now mind: I’m only telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true!) The Chinese plate looked very blue, And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do!” But the gingham dog and the calico cat Wallowed this way and tumbled that, Employing every tooth and claw In the awfullest way you ever saw— And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! (Don’t fancy I exaggerate— I got my news from the Chinese plate!) Next morning, where the two had sat They found no trace of dog or cat; And some folks think unto this day That burglars stole that pair away! But the truth about the cat and pup Is this: they ate each other up! Now what do you really think of that! (The old Dutch clock it told me so, And that is how I came to know.) |
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Nice, grav! :)
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A last will and testament in 1732.
To my dear Wife, My Joy and Life, I freely now do give her My whole Estate, With all my Plate, Being just about to leave her. A Tub of Soap, a long Cart Rope, A Frying-pan and Kettle, An Ashes Pail, A threshing Flail, An iron Wedge and Beetle. Two painted Chairs, Nine warden Pears, A large old dripping-platter, The Bed of Hay, On which I lay, An old Sauce pan for Butter. A little Mugg, A Two quart Jugg, A Bottle full of Brandy: A Looking-Glass To See your Face, You'll find it very handy. A Musket true As ever flew, A Pound of Shot & Wallet, A Leather Sash, My Calabash, My Powder-horn & Bullets. An old Sword blade, A Garden Spade, A Hoe, a Rake, a Ladder, A wooden Cann, A close-stool Pan, A Clyster-pipe and Bladder. A greasy Hat, My old Ram-Cat, a Yard and half of Linnen, A por of Grease, A woollen Fleece, In order for your Spinning. A small-tooth Comb, An ashen Broom, A Candlestick and Hatchet, A Coverlid Strip'd down with Red, A Bag of Rags to patch it. A ragged mat, A Tub of Fat; A Book put out by Bunyan, Another Book By Robin Rook; A Skain or two of Spunyarn. An old black Muff, Some Garden Stuff, A Quantity of Burrage, Some Devils Weed And Burdock Seed, To season well your Porridge. A Chafing-Dish, With one Salt Fish, If I am not mistaken, a Leg of Pork, A broken Pork, And half a flitch of bacon. A Spinning Wheel, One Peck of Meal, A Knife without a Handle, A rusty Lamp, Two Quarts of Samp, A piece of Tallow-Candle. My Pouch and Pipes, Two Oxen Tripes, An oaken Dish well carved, My little Dog, and spotted Hog, With two young Pigs just starved. This is my Stove, I have no more, I heartily do give it. |
WW I pilots drinking song...
A young aviator lay dying At the end of a bright summer’s day. His comrades had gathered around him To carry his fragments away. The aeroplane was piled on his wishbone, His Lewis was wrapped round his head, He wore a spark plug in each elbow, ‘Twas plain he would shortly be dead. He spat out a valve and a gasket As he stirred in the sump where he lay, And then to his wondering comrades These brave parting words did he say: “Take the manifold out of my larynx And the butterfly valve off my neck. Remove from my kidneys the camrods; There’s a lot of good parts in this wreck. “Take the piston rings out of my stomach, And the cylinders out of my brain. Extract from my liver the crankshaft, And assemble the engine again. “Pull the longeron out of my backbone, The turnbuckle out of my ear, From the small of my back take the rudder — There’s all of your aeroplane here.” |
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Poetry can be handy. :haha:
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Hit 'em with the book?
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Today, while doing a little research on Audie Murphy for Popdigr, I discovered that Mr. Murphy was somewhat of a poet. In addition to helping write several country songs (he was country music fan, but not a musician or singer) he wrote dozens of poems. When he was living in close friend Dave McClure's apartment, McClure would often come home to find the floor littered with poems written on scraps of paper. Here are the three that didn't get thrown away:
THE CROSSES GROW ON ANZIO Oh, gather 'round me, comrades; and listen while I speak Of a war, a war, a war where hell is six feet deep. Along the shore, the cannons roar. Oh how can a soldier sleep? The going's slow on Anzio. And hell is six feet deep. Praise be to God for this captured sod that rich with blood does seep. With yours and mine, like butchered swine's; and hell is six feet deep. That death awaits there's no debate; no triumph will we reap. The crosses grow on Anzio, where hell is six feet deep. ~Audie Murphy, 1948 ALONE AND FAR REMOVED Alone and far removed from earthly care The noble ruins of men lie buried here. You were strong men, good men Endowed with youth and much the will to live. I hear no protest from the mute lips of the dead. They rest: there is no more to give. So long my comrades, Sleep ye where you fell upon the field. But tread softly please March O'er my heart with ease. March on and on, But to God alone we kneel. ~Audie Murphy, late 1940's FREEDOM FLIES IN YOUR HEART LIKE AN EAGLE Dusty old helmet, rusty old gun, They sit in the corner and wait. Two souvenirs of the Second World War That have witnessed the time and the hate. Mute witness to a time of much trouble Where kill or be killed was the law. Were these implements used with high honor? What was the glory they saw? Many times I've wanted to ask them... And now that we're here, all alone, Relics all three of that long ago war. . . Where has freedom gone? Freedom flies in your heart like an eagle. Let it soar with the winds high above Among the Spirits of soldiers now sleeping. Guard with care and with love. I salute my old friends in the corner. I agree with all they have said . . . And if the moment of truth comes tomorrow, I'll be free, or by God, I'll be dead! ~Audie Murphy, 1968 Info here, and, here. |
Info on the poems at the second link.
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I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
by William Wordsworth I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, in such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. William and his sister took a walk on this day (April 15) in 1802, and he was inspired by "a long belt of daffodils" and wrote this poem. |
A Drumlin Woodchuck
by Robert Frost One thing has a shelving bank, Another a rotting plank, To give it cozier skies And make up for its lack of size. My own strategic retreat Is where two rocks almost meet, And still more secure and snug, A two-door burrow I dug. With those in mind at my back I can sit forth exposed to attack As one who shrewdly pretends That he and the world are friends. All we who prefer to live Have a little whistle we give, And flash, at the least alram We dive down under the farm. We allow some time for guile And don't come out for a while Either to eat or drink. We take occasion to think. And if after the hunt goes past And the double-barreled blast (Like war and pestilence And the loss of common sense), If I can with confidence say That still for another day, Or even another year, I will be there for you, my dear, It will be because, though small As measured against the All, I have been so instinctively thorough About my crevice and burrow. |
“A Victim of Irregularity”
Though no great catch, this man was caught, And neighbors tell, I’m told, That oft, with scratch, his face was scraught, Till fearful yells he yold. In sink of sadness almost sunk, To quit all strife he strove — And after he a think had thunk, A happier life he love. To steal a kiss, no more he stole; To make a break, he broke; To remedy the deal he’d dole, A secret sneak he snoke. Fate’s dice with crafty shake he shook; As gamblers feel he felt; But ere the final stake he stook A bitter squeal he squelt. Of earlier days, I think, he thought, Ere Hymen’s bonds had bound — Before his links were firmly lought — When he by blond was blound. A stroke for liberty he struck; For in a fly he flew — But though full many a joke he juck, A secret cry he crew. Then stings of conscience no more stung, And so in peace he slept; For, on the wings of Morpheus brung, In Paradise he pept. — George B. Moregood, Puck, Oct. 2, 1912 |
From an article about Victorian Cat Funerals...
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:mecry:
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Very touching
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Bukowski...
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I want some of what ol' Chuck was using.
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Excerpts of this poem are used in a current Busch beer commercial. That's where I heard it.
The Honest Working Man By Marie Joussaye As through the world we take our way How oftentimes we hear The praises sung of wealthy men, Of prince, and duke and peer. The poets tell us of their fame, They are lauded o’er the land, But you very seldom hear them sing Of the honest working man. They praise the wealthy banker, The purse-proud millionaire; Their pockets have golden lining, So they’re praised from everywhere. Let others sing the praises Of those darlings of the land, But mine shall be a nobler theme– The honest working man. Let monarchs prize their glittering crowns And all their royal host, Let lordlings brag of their blue blood– They have nothing else to boast. But what is all their rank, compared To our hero, true and grand, One of fair Nature’s noblemen– The honest working man. His hands may be both rough and hard, His clothes and speech be plain, But you will find his manly heart Without a spot or stain. And there are some whose clothes are fine. Whose hands are soft and white, But the secret records of their lives Could never bear the light. May Heaven’s choicest blessings fall Upon that hero’s head, Who bravely toils throughout each day To earn his loved ones bread. You’ll find no monarch who can show A record half so grand. God bless great labor’s true-born knight– The honest working man. So now of Fortune’s favored ones, Henceforth let less be said, And more be spoken of the man Who toils for daily bread. God bless each hardy son of toil That labors in the land. Let us give three cheers with right good will For the honest working man. |
Bravo!!!
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The honest WORKING man. Very cool.
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Here's a link to the commercial, if you're so inclined.
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Leda...
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All of the lovers and the love they made --
Nothing that was between them was a mistake. All that we did for love's sake Was not wasted and will never fade. |
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That was a perfect delivery, too.
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From a 1916 magazine...
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ROAD TRIP!!!
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No road trip.:headshake
Poem from one of my first wife's distant forebearers. Proves the whole fucking lineage was crazy. |
Lactose intolerant, I guess...
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Nick Myer with a cheerful note... :rolleyes:
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That's...uh...yeah, kinda.
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A dirty limerick:
There once was a lady named Jill Who tried a dynamite stick for a thrill They found her vagina In North Carolina And bits of her tits in Brazil :jig: Thanks to Zip for turning me on to the website from which the limerick came. |
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Sort of a poem...
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Sailor Sam in Cosmopolitan 1908...
http://cellar.org/img/Sam.jpg http://cellar.org/img/Sam1.jpg http://cellar.org/img/Sam2.jpg http://cellar.org/img/Sam3.jpg http://cellar.org/img/Sam4.jpg |
***DIRTY LIMERICK AHEAD***
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***END DiRTY LIMERICK ZONE***
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....
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I am not a thief or a godless heathen
There is no such thing as body stealing Clothes and jewelry are left behind To take those would be a crime We resurrectionist are men of science Without us anatomist would be blind To know the inner-workings of a body Why our profession is the noblest of mankind It is a shame that we must operate in stealth Even the moon betrays our work Flat wooden shovels dampen the noise A rope wrapped around the neck to pull out bodies The conditions are most deplorable Putrefaction is usually the norm And with stench comes disease Smallpox is what we heed We are looked upon as ghouls of the grave But look at the good we make! Teeth are used for dentures Wigs are made from a their hair We provide a service beyond compare The vanguard of science should be applauded Instead, mobs threaten us with violence Ungrateful, superstitious peasants Don't they know we are renaissance resurrectionists? Thomas Coston From PoemHunter.com |
4-4-4-4-5?-4, the hell?
Also, rhyme or don't, geez. Yeah, that's all I got to bitch about today. Other than that, though, I kinda liked it. |
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