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A horse and an ass
A buyer had a seller in a deal.
Each did it as that was the best.
To the buyer it was like a horse
And to the seller it was like an ass.
30.06.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pull The Wool
Dear friend you dont have to lie to me
When I ask you whats going on
Are you doin right or ya doing wrong
If you do right will there not be a lifting up
You misbehave
Sin is crouching by your grave
We can begin to make amends
Fill your sails full with wind
I know youre tossed and tempest turned, but make no mistake
Ill never sleep on you faith
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Now your sin, you must mask it
Your face is all riddled with guilt
Cover you like a blanket, but no warmth will it give
Now Im sittin here and cant believe all the measures youve taken
To cheat, lie and decieve me and all your friends
You got a lot a crazy things in life that you want to do in life, thats all right, but
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Lies in the nest enver ever let the birds get to rest
I can forgive, but I never can forget and lies in the nest never
Ever gave the birds no rest
Bricks built without straw were so weak they crumbled
To mud, just as your excuse with truth left you easily undone
Dont you run away
song performed by by G. Love & Special Sauce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0271 The Covering
It was not bright enough, not bright enough
to show itself to them, to all; to tempt
the world to bring it gifts; the coloured wool
would say to them look here, look here
it was not strong enough, not strong enough
to meet the heat, the cold; to venture
in the world’s bright gifts; the coloured wool
would warm it in the cold, the cold
it was not safe enough, not safe enough
to shield itself from hurt; to live its life
amid the strong, the weak; the coloured wool
would hide it from the hurt, the hurt
there was not care enough, not care enough;
the wool was knotted; slipped and slid
around its centre there; the coloured wool
is knotted here and here and here
there is not time enough, not time enough
to free the wool; the wool it would cast off
from off its centre there; the coloured wool
that never was the need, the need
there were not words enough, not words enough
to free itself; itself which never had the need
to bind itself in coloured wools; it did not trust
the bright, the strong, the safe, the care, the time.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Loan man and woman
A lone woman among men
And a lone man among women
Are the centres of attractions,
She akin to a buyer
And he, to a seller and
Yet a buyer is dearer
As she will not buy from
As many as are offered to sell..
06.11.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The wool of a thousand sheep in good pasture at the least ought to yield fifty marks a year, the wool of two thousand one hundred marks, and so forth, counting by thousands.
quote by Robert Grosseteste
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Out on the Roofs of Hell
SING us a song in this cynical age,
Sing us a song, my friend,
While the Flesh and the Devil are all the rage
And Death seems the only end.
Give it the clatter of hoof-clipped bones
And a note like a dingo’s yell,
And the long, low sigh when the big mob moans
Out on the roofs of hell.
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides and Co.,
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides—
Over the roofs of hell we go
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides.
We take the route or we take the track,
Hell-doomed by the greed of man,
And we leave our wives in the scrubs out back
To struggle as best they can.
For the credit is short and the flour is low—
And this is the tale we tell—
A check must be made and the stock must go
Over the roofs of hell.
Wake ere the burst of the great white sun
Into the blazing skies,
Our limbs are stiff and the lids are gummed
Over our blighted eyes.
But our souls have perished in dust and heat,
And this is the tale we tell—
Our lives are ever a grim retreat
With Death on the roofs of hell.
They drivel and say how the bushman drinks,
But what do the townsfolk know?
The life is a hell to the man who thinks—
He must drink or his reason go.
Drink and drink, as the bushman knows,
Till he strip to the skin and yell;
Down for a change! for a rest! he goes
Down through the roofs of hell.
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides and Co.,
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides,
Down through the roofs of hell they go
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I am a seller, Arent you?
I am a seller
A seller of different kind
I sell my dreams
in lieu of better dreams
sometimes to 'time'
sometimes to 'fate'
And sometimes to 'reality'
I am a dream seller
Aren't you?
I am architect
an architect of different kind
I build my dreams
block by block
only to dismantle
sometimes because of 'time'
sometimes because of 'fate'
And sometimes because of 'reality'
I am arcitect
an architect of different kind
Aren't you?
I am a buyer
A buyer of different kind
I bargain for dreams
sometimes with 'time'
sometimes with 'fate'
And sometimes with 'reality'
I am buyer
A buyer of different kind
Aren't you?
Inspite of knowing
ultimately i will sell
I concieve dreams
Inspite of knowing
ultimately i will dismnatle
I build my dreams
Inspite of knowing
ultimately i will fail in bargainig
I bargain for my dreams
because
its better
to sell, dismantle or bargain for
my dreams
than end up
selling, dismaaintling or bargaining for
my soul
poem by Anjesh shekhar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I can see through almost any scam, especially one perpetrated by the federal government. I can see through it... they can't pull the wool over my eyes, it's absolutely freakin' impossible to pull the wool over my eyes about the government.
quote by Gary Coleman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cotton-Wool
Shun the brush and shun the pen,
Shun the ways of clever men,
When they prove that black is white,
Whey they swear that wrong is right,
When they roast the singing stars
Like chestnuts, in between the bars,
_Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._
When you see a clever man
Run as quickly as you can.
You must never, never, never
Think that Socrates was clever.
The cleverest thing I ever knew
Now cracks walnuts at the Zoo.
_Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._
Homer could not scintillate.
Milton, too, was merely great.
That's a very different matter
From talking like a frantic hatter.
Keats and Shelley had no tricks.
Wordsworth never climbed up sticks.
_Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._
Lincoln would create a gloom
In many a London drawing-room;
He'd be silent at their wit,
He would never laugh at it.
When they kissed Salome's toes,
I think he'd snort and blow his nose.
_Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._
They'd curse him for a silly clown,
They'd drum him out of London town.
Professor Flunkey, the historian,
Would say he was a dull Victorian.
Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John,
Bless the bed I rest upon.
_Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._
Amen.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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The seller has one eye, the buyer, one hundred.
Blow Out
In my mind and nailed into my heels.
All the time killing what I feel.
And everything I touch
[All wrapped up in cotton wool]
[All wrapped up and sugar coated]
turns to stone.
And everything I touch
[All wrapped up in cotton wool]
[All wrapped up and sugar coated]
turns stone.
I am fused just in case I blow out.
I am glued just because I crack out.
Everything I touch turns to stone.
Everything I touch
[All wrapped up in cotton wool]
[All wrapped up and sugar coated]
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For the buyer a hundred eyes are too few, for the seller one is enough.
The buyer needs a hundred eyes, the seller but one.
The buyer has need of a hundred eyes. the seller but one.
The buyer has need of a hundred eyes, the seller of but one.
The buyer needs a hundred eyes, the seller not one.
quote by George Herbert
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The buyer needs a hundred eyes; the seller but one.
Winding Wool
She'd bring to me a skein of wool
And beg me to hold out my hands;
so on my pipe I cease to pull
And watch her twine the shining strands
Into a ball so snug and neat,
Perchance a pair of socks to knit
To comfort my unworthy feet,
Or pullover my girth to fit.
As to the winding I would sway,
A poem in my head would sing,
And I would watch in dreamy way
The bright yarn swiftly slendering.
The best I liked were coloured strands
I let my pensive pipe grow cool . . .
Two active and two passive hands,
So busy wining shining wool.
Alas! Two of those hands are cold,
And in these days of wrath and wrong,
I am so wearyful and old,
I wonder if I've lived too long.
So in my loneliness I sit
And dream of sweet domestic rule . . .
When gentle women used to knit,
And men were happy winding wool.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Tribute to Mr J. Graham Henderson, The World's Fair Judge
Thrice welcome home to Hawick, Mr J. Graham Henderson,
For by your Scotch tweeds a great honour you have won;
By exhibiting your beautiful tweeds at the World's Fair
You have been elected judge of Australian and American wools while there.
You had to pass a strict examination on the wool trade,
But you have been victorious, and not the least afraid,
And has been made judge of wools by Sir Henry Truman Good,
And was thanked by Sir Henry where he stood.
You have been asked by Sir Henry to lecture on wools there,
And you have consented to do so, which made your audience stare
When you let them see the difference betwixt good wool and bad;
You'll be sure to gain fresh honours, they will feel so glad.
To think they have found a clever man indeed,
That knows good wool and how to manufacture Scotch tweed,
I wish you success for many a long day,
Because your Scotch tweeds are the best, I venture to say.
May you always be prosperous wherever you go,
Always gaining fresh friends, but never a foe,
Because you are good and a very clever man,
And to gainsay it there's few people can.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Early Bought
Early bought sweater
Pink wool, she has just bought her sweater
Sitting in the waiting room, I can't help but notice
The tag hanging out,
Most probably tickeling her neck
How does she not notice?
Not remember to gently cut it off
Careful not to rip the very fibers that cover her body,
How does she forget that in public, she ignorently shows
The store at which she shops?
This early bought, pink wool, sweater
Now keeps her warm in the waiting room.
poem by Daisymilk Riverflower
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