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Campaign Song
Boom boom boom
Boon boon boon
Bane bane bane
Your campaign song
Is too loud, bane
I am riding on boon
Good and fine days
Ignorant of intended ways
Boom your campaign song
It was too loud, bane
I barely could manage
To hear your message
I voted for the other candidate
Your Boom song was too loud
It was good in our ears in June
But you sang it till December
That even kids should remember
I choose otherwise, voted you out
Is Campaign song bane or boon?
poem by Benjamin Paa Willie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Haec Fabula Docet
A rat who'd gorged a box of bane
And suffered an internal pain,
Came from his hole to die (the label
Required it if the rat were able)
And found outside his habitat
A limpid stream. Of bane and rat
'T was all unconscious; in the sun
It ran and prattled just for fun.
Keen to allay his inward throes,
The beast immersed his filthy nose
And drank-then, bloated by the stream,
And filled with superheated steam,
Exploded with a rascal smell,
Remarking, as his fragments fell
Astonished in the brook: 'I'm thinking
This water's damned unwholesome drinking!'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sex hunger has rebirth.
Those who fell in my arm
Were never by heart warm,
Nor active in bed to warm,
With eyes on fear or alms.
Those who fell in love with
Me, put in me their heart
But refused to share with
Their parts, warned by guilt.
Had one such fallen with me,
How warm I would have been!
How warm I would have made!
We might be hunger-less.
Now the time is over.
Wills for women persist.
Their love for me ceases.
Hungry sex is the bane.
Shall I be born again?
Yes, I shall, nay I should.
Script says one is reborn
Whose desires weren’t burnt.
18.05.2002, pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He that winna when he may shanna when he wad.
Quintili Vare, Legiones Redde
I
I was at ease. Now, pinched, in pain,
burdened beyond the years I bear.
Summer is sunk in Autumn rain,
on legions lost I dream, despair!
II
High eagles fell low in fell enemy’s lair,
my legions in slime die, lie slain,
Rome’s raped reputation mourns careworn and bare,
shall she ever arise again?
Shall some stronger scion Dame Fortune’s dice dare?
harry the Hun, shatter the bane,
regain sacred standards, and offer up prayer,
saving us from the shame, the pain?
poem by Jonathan Robin
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He's a proud fox that winna scrape his ain hole.
If it winna be a gude shoe we'll mak a bauchel o't.
He that cheats in daffin winna be honest in earnest.
I winna mak a toil o' a pleasure, quo' the man when he buried his wife and was asked to speed it up.
The Happy Townland
THERE'S many a strong farmer
Whose heart would break in two,
If he could see the townland
That we are riding to;
Boughs have their fruit and blossom
At all times of the year;
Rivers are running over
With red beer and brown beer.
An old man plays the bagpipes
In a golden and silver wood;
Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,
Are dancing in a crowd.
The little fox he murmured,
'O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured,
'O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
When their hearts are so high
That they would come to blows,
They unhook rheir heavy swords
From golden and silver boughs;
But all that are killed in battle
Awaken to life again.
It is lucky that their story
Is not known among men,
For O, the strong farmers
That would let the spade lie,
Their hearts would be like a cup
That somebody had drunk dry.
The little fox he murmured,
'O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rcin;
But the little red fox murmured,
'O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
Michael will unhook his trumpet
From a bough overhead,
And blow a little noise
When the supper has been spread.
Gabriel will come from the water
With a fish-tail, and talk
Of wonders that have happened
On wet roads where men walk.
And lift up an old horn
Of hammered silver, and drink
Till he has fallen asleep
Upon the starry brink.
The little fox he murmured,
'O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured.
'O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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God keep ill gear out o' my hands; for if my hand ance get it, my heart winna part wi't, sae prayed the gude earl of eglinton.
Brudefolkene
Paa Bane nu, paa Bane!
Seer Du den røde Fane?
De ringed anden Gang;
Vor Vei er ikke lang!
Jeg sidder ved din Side;
Vi gjennem Luften glide,
Alt flyve vi forbi,
Ja, det er Trylleri!
End milevidt derhenne
Staaer Kirken, og i denne
Min Brud Du blive vil.
O, Lyst at flyve til!
Vi eie Ørnens Vinger!
Hør alt, hvor Orglet klinger!
Hvor svandt dog Byer og Træer!
Et Kys! — Nu er vi der!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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He that winna be ruled by the rudder maun be ruled by the rock.