Related quotes: God made the wicked Grocer...

The Song Against Grocers

God made the wicked Grocer
For a mystery and a sign,
That men might shun the awful shops
And go to inns to dine;
Where the bacon's on the rafter
And the wine is in the wood,
And God that made good laughter
Has seen that they are good.

The evil-hearted Grocer
Would call his mother "Ma'am,"
And bow at her and bob at her,
Her aged soul to damn,
And rub his horrid hands and ask
What article was next
Though MORTIS IN ARTICULO
Should be her proper text.

His props are not his children,
But pert lads underpaid,
Who call out "Cash!" and bang about
To work his wicked trade;
He keeps a lady in a cage
Most cruelly all day,
And makes her count and calls her "Miss"
Until she fades away.

The righteous minds of innkeepers
Induce them now and then
To crack a bottle with a friend
Or treat unmoneyed men,
But who hath seen the Grocer
Treat housemaids to his teas
Or crack a bottle of fish sauce
Or stand a man a cheese?

He sells us sands of Araby
As sugar for cash down;
He sweeps his shop and sells the dust
The purest salt in town,
He crams with cans of poisoned meat
Poor subjects of the King,
And when they die by thousands
Why, he laughs like anything.

The wicked Grocer groces
In spirits and in wine,
Not frankly and in fellowship
As men in inns do dine;
But packed with soap and sardines
And carried off by grooms,
For to be snatched by Duchesses
And drunk in dressing-rooms.

The hell-instructed Grocer
Has a temple made of tin,
And the ruin of good innkeepers
Is loudly urged therein;
But now the sands are running out
From sugar of a sort,
The Grocer trembles; for his time,
Just like his weight, is short.

poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes

The Song against Grocers

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spotlight Drunk

The challenges...
Are real.
The competition?
Also real.
The feelings...
Those are real,
Real. Real!

These egos are spotlight drunk.
Who will get that slam dunk...
Depicting my qualifications,
To be the man I am?
Well...
That seems to be me.
I don't seek confirmation.
Or anyone to agree.

And no candidate running for public office,
Is going to convince my landlord...
To whom I pay rent.
The grocer...
To whom I spend nearly my last cent!
Or those who supply my utilities...
If I have the ability to keep them on!
And 'if' I can do these things on credit.

I have never approached them to ask!

Not once have they expressed concern,
How I affirm my actions!
They just are tired of hearing me say...
'The check is in the mail.'

Except for the grocer.
If I go in without cash...
I come out with no packed bags.
No one negotiates,
Not even for a loaf of bread...
Milk, eggs or one grape!
If you are in line with items,
Be prepared to pay!

And no one making speeches,
On the streets with rolled up sleeves.
Or from behind podiums...
Suited in silk and tied down,
Will express my cause...
With a delivery to my door,
Of cash...
I can hold in my hands!
For however long that may last.

Somehow...
I know this!
That's just the reality I live.
With none of it being staged.
Or graded for the performance.

Somehow...
I know this!
And my best routine?
That's keeping my head above water.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spring

'YES, Spring has come,' the grocer said,
And tied a final knot of string,
Rang up the change and becked his head,
Elated at the breath of Spring.

'Yes, Spring has come,' the poet said,
And poured his ecstasy in rhymes,
Which eager, homesick exiles read
Long winter-locked in frozen climes.

Perhaps the grocer's way was best,
If joy can better be, or worse:
He saved his rapture unexpressed,
The poet spent his for a verse.

poem by Alice Duer Miller
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Factrory Food

Factory Made Food.
A perfect microwave dinner for one
sunrays drink from the wine bottle
The dinner is tasteless,
and the rest of the wine is warm
as a cat licks its paw and has no worry
about the morrow.
Who invented tuna fish with mashed potatoes?
It must be someone without a mother,
or if he had one, she must have been
a busy executive and time poor.
At the orphanage they eat left over of dinners
they never had, forever made into a stew
children do not care; yester-days loaf.
He sits in his mansion, count his money and
think of other variety of frozen food he can
invented preferable something that looks
looks like vomit.
He is a vegetarian and hate mankind for
liking meat…he hates greedy little children too
even his own, serves them burger made of
fat full of sugar and salt.
Knows he will follow them to the grave and
be the longest living man on earth.
Who the hell drank my wine?

poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Yankee Shrewdness

In a little country village,
Not many years ago,
There lived a real "live Yankee,"
Whom they called "Old Uncle Snow."
In trade he had no equal;
And storekeepers would say,
"We're always 'out of pocket'
When Snow comes round this way."
'Twas the custom of the villagers —
Few of them being rich —
To trade their surplus "garden-sass"
For groceries and "sich".
One store supplied the village
With goods of every kind,
Including wines and liquors
For those that way inclined.
A counter in the "sample-room"
Was fixed up very neat;
And after every "barter-trade"
The storekeeper would "treat".
Old Snow brought in, one morning,
An egg fresh from the barn,
And said, "Give me a needle:
My woman wants to darn."
The trade was made: the storekeeper
Asked him to take a drink.
"I'll humor him," he said, aside,
As the lookers-on did wink.
"Don't care, naow, ef I do," says Snow;
"And, as your goin' to treat,
Just put a leetle sugar in,—
I like my liquor sweet.
"And, say, while you're about it, —
Though I don't like to beg,—
'Twill taste a leetle better
If you drop in an egg."
"All right, friend," says the grocer,
Now being fairly "caught,"
And dropped into the tumbler
The egg that Snow had brought!
The egg contained a double yolk.
Says Snow, "Here, this won't do:
Give me another needle, 'Squire;
This egg's the same as two!"

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When the cat and mouse agree, the grocer is ruined.

Iranian proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the cat and the mouse agree, the grocer is ruined.

Persian proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If you dress in gold or silk, you are still the same green grocer.

Arabian proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The average man has a carefully cultivated ignorance about household matters - from what to do with the crumbs to the grocer's telephone number - a sort of cheerful inefficiency which protects him.

quote by Crystal Eastman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Matrimony is a process by which a grocer acquired an account the florist had.

quote by Frances Rodman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Theres No Business Like Show Business

Theres no business like show business like no business I know
Everything about it is appealing, everything that traffic will allow
Nowhere could you get that happy feeling when you are stealing that extra bow
Theres no people like show people, they smile when they are low
Even with a turkey that you know will fold, you may be stranded out in the cold
Still you wouldnt change it for a sack of gold, lets go on with the show
The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk
Are secretly unhappy men because
The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk
Get paid for what they do but no applause.
Theyd gladly bid their dreary jobs goodbye for anything theatrical and why?
Theres no business like show business and I tell you its so
Traveling through the country is so thrilling, standing out in front on opening nights
Smiling as you watch the theater filling, and theres your billing out there in lights
Theres no people like show people, they smile when they are low
Angels come from everywhere with lots of jack, and when you lose it, theres no attack
Where could you get money that you dont give back? lets go on with the show
(theres no business like show business like no business I know)
You get word before the show has started that your favorite uncle died at dawn
Top of that, your pa and ma have parted, youre broken-hearted, but you go on
(theres no people like show people, they smile when they are low)
Yesterday they told you you would not go far, that night you open and there you are
Next day on your dressing room theyve hung a star, lets go on with the show!!

song performed by by Irving Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A grocer is attracted to his business by a magnetic force as great as the repulsion which renders it odious to artists.

quote by Honore de Balzac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gloomy

The saddest sight
A bar closed
Four in the morning
When I just want another
Drink
Before going home
To an empty flat
And a stuffed canary
In a dusty cage.
The consolation is
If I walk slowly
The Chinese grocer
Will be open
And he has got cold
Beer in his fridge.

poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Affluent Nightmares

In panic, drenched chest in sweat
Life under the sun’s canopy of have not’s
Banks beg for money, accounts in neglect
Loan sharks plead, as we sign on the dot

To snatch deeds bought with blood
Absent or the lack of cash flow in fountains
Bills rising, sweep currents torrential flood
Collector’s bounty, hide on debts mountain

Leave needs behind in grocer stores
Walk on by, window shopping for baby milk
Panting quickly, awake to vast images of gore
Your dreams of poverty, wet sheets made of silk

My everyday living, well being, welfare
The Affluent, these are their Nightmares

poem by Akili Amina
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am A Wicked Child

Mother mary come to me
Cause I am a wicked child
I have sinned and I am so confused and I am a wicked child
I am a wicked child
I am the devils son and I wish I could be good for you
I walk a crooked mile
but I wish I could be good
I wish I could be good
If I could have kept the straight and narrow
If I could have kept the straight and narrow
And not have broke your heart
Not have broke your heart
Now I wake up in the night
Lying on my bed
It's tugging at my arms and legs
Like I was a marionette
Send baby Jesus
Surely it is time
Send baby jesus
Let him radiate his light
Radiate his light
lyrics from 24-03-2000 webcast:
I am the devils son and I wish I could be good for you
broke your heartwicked child
and I am a wicked child
I am a wicked child
and I am a wicked child
I am a wicked child
and I am a wicked child
I am a wicked child
and I am a wicked child
I am a wicked child
because I am a wicked child
and I deserve to go to hell
and I am a wicked child
I am a wicked child
and I am a wicked child & I am a wicked child
and I am a wicked child
I am a..

song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our Street

In our street, the main street
Running thro' the town,
You see a lot of busy folk
Going up and down:

Bag men and basket men,
Men with loads of hay,
Buying things and selling things
And carting things away.

The butcher is a funny man,
He calls me Dandy Dick;
The baker is a cross man,
I think he's often sick;

The fruiterer's a nice man,
He gives me apples, too;
The grocer says, "Good morning, boy,
What can I do for you?"

Of all the men in our street
I like the cobbler best,
Tapping, tapping at his last
Without a minute's rest;

Talking all the time he taps,
Driving in the nails,
Smiling with his old grey eyes -
(Hush) ... telling fairy tales.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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War and Peace

"This war is a terrible thing," he said,
"With its countless numbers of needless dead;
A futile warfare it seems to me,
Fought for no principle I can see.
Alas, that thousands of hearts should bleed
For naught but a tyrant's boundless greed!"

* * * *

Said the wholesale grocer, in righteous mood,
As he went to adulterate salable food.

Spake as follows the merchant king:
"Isn't this war a disgusting thing?
Heartless, cruel, and useless, too;
It doesn't seem that it can be true.
Think of the misery, want and fear!
We ought to be grateful we've no war here.

* * * *

"Six a week"--to a girl--"That's flat!
I can get a thousand to work for that."

poem by Franklin P. Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mr. Shoemaker's Daughter

Hey, mr. shoemaker's daughter,
Hey, mr. shoemaker's daughter,
Don't throw my love away.
I'm coming home today.
Hey, mr. green grocer's daughter,
Hey, mr. green grocer's daughter,
Don't turn your head away.
Don't take the sun away.
Every time i see you i wanna say "hey".
But every time you see me you walking away from me.
I've been gone for such a long, long time,
But i'm coming home, gonna make you mine.
Hey, mr. cake baker's daughter,
Hey, mr. bread baker's daughter,
I'm coming home today.
Don't hide the world[?] away.
Every time i see you i wanna say "hey".
But every time you see me you walking away from me.
I've been gone for such a long, long time,
But i'm coming home, gonna make you mine.
How is that fresh morning feeling?
How is the dawn and the evening?
I will be free today.
Hey, mr. shoemaker's daughter,
Hey, mr. shoemaker's daughter,
I'll see you soon today.
Hey, mr. dress maker's daughter,
Hey, mr. green seller's daughter,
Don't throw my love away.

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spots Through the Ages

Romance goes out of everything in these days of ill grace,
And even old John Barleycorn grows 'standardised' apace;
Once henchman of gay gallantry, a kindlier part he played.
Scene: Tavern door. A saucy wench. A merry, ruffling blade.
He stops. She smiles. Arm round her waist. 'Could Eve be more divine?
See, a kiss, my pretty sweetling. Then, I pray, a stoup of wine.'

'Twas in a 'silver' tassie' that Rab Burns pledged his lass
(The current one, 'tis understood). But days grows drab, alas.
Scene: London pub. Tiles. Glittering glass: and there, behind the bar,
A brass-haired goddess, proud, aloof from this meek gutter child.
'A pot o' four-'arf, thank yeh, miss. An' please to dror it ild.'

The scene shifts to Australia, 'where a man can raise a thirst.'
(See Kipling). From 'long-sleevers' now they drained the stuff acurst.
Back of beyond, by Clancy's run they've a had a six months' drought.
Scene: Old bush shanty. Summer. Flies. Six shearers 'cutting out.'
A shirt-sleeved, whiskered barman. Says Bill: 'By gum, it's 'ot!
Breast up, blokes. Name yer gargle. Rybuck, boss; mine's a pot.'

But mass-production now debunks old John, for olden sins;
They've 'synthesised' him, 'standardised' him, soldered him in tins.
Grog goes no more with gallantry, nor wine with poesy.
Scene: Chain store-grocer's. Pickles, clothes-pegs, jam, tinned salmon, tea.
Smug grocer (strict abstainer). enter cove in working duds.
He slings a sprat across the joint: 'Hoy! Gissa tinna suds!'