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Too Many Cooks In The Kitchen
Theres too many cooks in the kitchen
Theres too many minds on the job
Theres too many cooks in the kitchen
Everybody wants a piece of the action
Cooking the books and getting their fractions wrong
What we need is law and order
Everybody knows
Cant have chiefs without the injuns
Stepping on their toes
Theres too many cooks in the kitchen
Theres too many daps in the pie
Theres too many cooks in the kitchen
Everybody needs a place in the rat race
Playing games of power, its only a cat chase
Too many too many too many etc.
Too many cooks in the kitchen
[by the colonel]
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Night Of The Long Knives
Whos your leader, whos your man?
Who will help you fill your hand?
Whos your friend and whos your foe?
Whos your judas, you dont know?
Night of the long knives
Wheres that saviour, wheres that light
When youre praying for your life?
Whos that fighting back to back?
Whos defending whose attack?
Night of the long knives
(stick em in the back woods)
Night of the long knives
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too many cooks, cooking at the same time makes the day take long to break.
You Wear It So Well
All of those things
Yeah, that you got to give
Yeah, you wear it so well
Hey, you wear it so well
All of those stories
Honey, that i know you could tell
Yeah, you wear it so well
And your face hides it so we can't tell
That you knew we would wear it so well
You wear it so well
Yeah darling, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
Yeah baby, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
Yeah now baby, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
Hey now darling now, yeah, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
All of those things
That make poets sing
You wear it so well
Yeah, you hide it so well
And all of those pain
That you used to tell
You hide it so well
Can't tell from your face that you knew it so well
Hey, now that you have such a story to tell
Yeah, you got style and grace and you wear it so well
You wear it so well
And you got, you got such a story to tell
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you wear it so well
Grace and style equals you so well
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you wear it so well, well, yeah, so well
Yeah, you wear it, wear it, wear it now, wear it now, baby
Yeah, now you wear it so well
And you got such a story to tell
(ooohhh, ooohhh, ooohhh)
(ooohhh, you wear it so well)
(you wear it so well)
(you wear it so well)
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sleep, Sleep, My Little One
Sleep, sleep, my little one
‘Tis better in this world of us
To sleep the sleep of the innocents
Than sleep the sleep of the just:
At least you’ll have a greater chance
To avoid long knives and plots
And bloody rendezvous.
For in this world, this world of us
The just is alien and his sleep
Most dangerous negligence:
Long knives will wait at corners round
And plots and darts abound
For all the just around.
For in this world, this world of us,
The sleep of innocents is better than
The sleep of all the just, my little one.
Sleep, sleep, my little one
And let outside the dark wind neigh
And rain and chill make fear
And the sea’s waves make storm and rage
And evil win
And the good disappear
And do not open your eyes sweet one
Before night and storm have passed away.
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Prophets Of Profit
in the shadows
beneath the trees,
the men with the long
knives wait;
call them unholy, call them
prophets, men of vision,
men of change...
soldiers of the grey kingdom,
where nothing is revealed.
every starving child,
every bomb dropped
on indiscriminate huts...
every girl baby aborted,
every young boy sent to prison
for his education...
every young girl bought
for an hour, used like a rag,
and tossed aside....
for miles and miles of oceans
poisoned by oil....
for the homeless man
beaten to death by the deputy....
the migrant family terrorized,
the young gay boy found hanging....
the men with the long knives wait...
choosing who will live and die,
who is useful, and who is not...
the judges chosen by
the oil drenched hand....
the prophets of profit!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The missing
I was missing...
I was missing...
At my self
I was missing...
Wear is i am...?
wear is i am...?
Asking for my mind
Any time...
I am missing...
For my sence...
Wear i am...?
My work...
my money...
my poem's...
my dayana...
Wear i am...
Wear...?
I was leave
At me...
But...
I was searching
For the world drama...
I was search
Wear i am...?
My answer is;
'Missing...! '
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Knives Out
I want you to know
Hes not coming back
Look into my eyes
Im not coming back
So knives out
Catch the mouse
Dont look down
Shove it in your mouth
If youd been a dog
They wouldve drowned you at birth
Look into my eyes
Its the only way youll know Im telling the truth
So knives out
Cook him up
Squash his head
Put him in the pot
I want you to know
Hes not coming back
Hes bloated and frozen
Still theres no point in letting it go to waste
So knives out
Catch the mouse
Squash his head
Put him in the pot
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kind Knives
Sweet and nice
Can be like knives
But not your personality
for it is like a butterfly
Landing gently
Traveling swiftly
Cutting through the air
With those beautiful wings
For thats why your personality
Is not like knives but like a butterfly
poem by Jonathan Kjaer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Cook
I eat more than I cook, little eyes are on me,
As I weep and shudder furiously, full of bad habit.
The reality of a life beyond encases me still,
To stop this, tragedy appears to mock and arrive
At our doorstep. The door is a forceful entrance
Into the brilliance of the universe, the gates remind.
I have eaten all this while, food to mock,
As the lipids stretch my body, with proteins and salts.
These minerals are what cooks are made of,
Cooks remind me of worlds and foods.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Blades
SOJOURNER, set down
Your skimming wheel;
Nothing is sharp
That we have of steel:
Nothing has edge:
Oh, whirl around
Your wheel of stone
Till our blades be ground!
Harshly, quickly, under blades
Hafted with horn and wood and bone
Went the wheel:
Narrow long knives that should be one edge,
House-knives that sliced the loaf to the heel,
And scraped scales off mackerel,
And weighty knives that were shaped like a wedge-
Stone wakened keenness m their steel:
Knives with which besom-makers pare
Their heather-stalks, and hawkers' blades
Used by men of a dozen trades;
Broad-bladed knives that cut bacon-sides,
And stumpy knives for cobblers' hides,
With hunters' knives that were thinned with wear:-
All were brought to,
All were laid on,
All were ground by
The Sojourner's wheel.
And those who filled the market-square
Saw hand and eye upon their ware
That were well schooled and scrupulous
To spend upon that task their use.
But sparks came from the eyes and met
The sparks that were from the edges whet
As eagerly and wittingly
The dullness of each blade scoured he,
And the brow he bent was like a stone.
Over the grinding-stone he sang,
'The dalesman's sword shall make you fear,
And the dirk in the grasp of the mountaineer,
likewise the pirate's blue cutlass
have left your blades long edgeless!'
the men were thinking of games of cards,
the looks of the boys were turned towards
corner where they played pitch and toss,
the women thought of the herring across
tongs to roast where pot-hooks hang,
ready and unforward men have no right to any lien
the gifts of Tubal Cain,
The gifts of our father, Tubal Cain!'
But no one drew meaning from the song
As he made an equal edge along
One side of the blade and the other one,
And polished the surface till it shone.
'Now leave a blessing on what you have done.'
'For what I have done I take my fee,
But no blessing I leave on it,' said he,
'Everybody knows,
Everybody knows
That the knife-grinder
No blessing bestows.'
Then the market-place, with wheel a-pack,
He left, and the men to their cards went back
And talked of a bird in the cocker's loft;
And of liming linnets beside the croft
The boys told between pitch and toss;
And the women laid the herring across
The tongs to roast for a sloven's meal.
And he went out beside the Peel
Tower, and through Saint Selskar's Gate,
Heading at a hearty rate
Towards the hilltops and the shades.
And three who brought back sharpened blades
To their fathers' stalls by the Tan-yard Side,
And then stayed while a blackbird cried
Quietly by their groundsills
The butcher's daughter,
The cobbler's daughter,
The hawker's daughter,
Were lost on the hills!
poem by Padraic Colum
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For Merit
To Parmentier Parisians raise
A statue fine and large:
He cooked potatoes fifty ways,
Nor ever led a charge.
'_Palmam qui meruit'_-the rest
You knew as well as I;
And best of all to him that best
Of sayings will apply.
Let meaner men the poet's bays
Or warrior's medal wear;
Who cooks potatoes fifty ways
Shall bear the palm-de terre.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Wear A Smile
I wear a smile
that never reach my eyes.
I wear a smile
that feels misplaced.
I wear a smile
that is completely fake.
I wear a smile
to drown my sorrow.
I wear a smile
but i'm so numb.
One day this mask will break,
but then it will be too late.
poem by Precious Arroyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Womens Next
womens are
not sexy wear...
womens are
not beauty wear...
womens are not
funny wear...
womens are not
hotty wear...
womens are
a power wear..
in another world...
not only child birth
with hands
with brain
with works
with loves
make a new world...
tommrow...
that is day near...
very near...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Man in Green
Well, you wonder why
I always wear the green,
The colours of the world’s
Finest football team,
You will never see me wear the colours
Of royal or navy blue,
As I’m a Celtic supporter,
Faithful through and through.
I wear the green for my ancestors,
Who came from Ireland, long ago,
Who left Erin’s shores and settled
In the town of Glasgow,
I wear it for the Irish Diaspora,
Who fled the famine and the crown,
I wear from Brother Walfrid
Who sheltered the poor in the east end of town.
I wear the emerald green
In memory of my father,
Garngad born,
A faithful Celtic supporter,
He walked the path to heaven,
Over ten years ago,
As he stands with Our Lord
Wearing his green, white and gold.
I wear the green for the Celtic legends,
Who have left our lives,
Knowing that they entered heaven
With Our Lord on their side,
I wear it for Willie Maley, Jock Stein
And young John Thomson,
I wear it for Bobby Murdoch, Johnny Doyle
And wee Jimmy Johnstone.
I wear the colours of Celtic,
Each and every day,
I pray for the bhoys of Parkhead each night,
And to God, I do say,
Why do all the Orangemen,
All hate the sight of green?
For green’s the finest colour
That the world has ever seen.
March’29th 2006
poem by Daniel McDonagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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