Beware of women with beards and men without beards.
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Some of these guys wear beards to make them look intimidating, but they don't look so tough when they have to deliver the ball. Their abilities and their attitudes don't back up their beards.
quote by Don Drysdale
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The Carolina Woods
HERE you should lie, ye Kings of eld,
Barbarossa, Boabdil,
And Czar Lazar and Charlemagne,
Arthur, Gaelic Finn-
Here where the
muffling Spanish mosses
Forests with forests fill!
Not in a cavern where the winds
Trample with battle-call,
But in these woods where branch and branch
From tree and tree let fall
Not moss, but grey and cobweb beards,
Kings' cabalistic beards!
Here should you sleep your cycles out,
Ye Kings with hoary beards!
poem by Padraic Colum
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I thought comedians had to have black on their faces or red beards.
quote by Dorothy Gish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rap is poetry to music, like beatniks without beards and bongos.
quote by David Lee Roth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On poor people's beards the young barber learns his trade.
Food Handouts To Vagrants
There were food handouts
for vagrants in those days
when people travelled to places by walk.
If tired strangers sat at the steps
of choultries in villages,
people would give them food to eat.
And in the early morning,
they would resume their journey.
Now we see hotels all along the road
but the rate of each item is doubled.
Some tramps beg for food and shelter
and in the dawn they'd be out with
some valuables missing. In some places,
the derelicts are given shelter
but their meagre gold is looted.
The governments give freebies to people
in exchange of their votes in ensuing polls.
Yet some odd persons are out to beg and eat.
In a few days the cops find them as terror-outfits.
Some with beards come like sages
and in the morning, some nearby cages are empty,
from which a few women elope with them.
Beware of the vagrants these days!
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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When Two Beards Converge
when two beards
indeed converge
tonight, at least
i have already
a hint about your
name, the place
where you live,
and the kind of
tongue that you
use. and just in
case my lice
land in yours
and yours in
mine please be
considerate.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I would prefer to have a more appealing job. If I could still change careers, I would prefer it. This unfortunate art is made for long beards and ugly faces rather than for a relatively well-endowed woman.
quote by Camille Claudel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Romancing The Beard
What women are attracted to
Though to some it may seem weird
Is a man who has a curl-i-que
That we’ve come to call a beard
They seem to love what’s hair-ly
On the chin and down below
That hair they find so rarely
Is that hair that they can’t grow
They love that tickly feeling
When caressing bearded men
Those beards just send them reeling
For those men they have a yen
These ladies have this craving
For men with chin filled bristles
These men who do no shaving
Who have these chin filled frizzles
A beard can really dazzle
When covering a jawline
With it’s sexy kind of frazzle
It can dazzle any fraulein
poem by Stanley Cooper
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Some furious fools went to school
only to learn how to re invent the stool
to stumble and hang their wisdom long beards
around the shot bang academic years
too bad they became endemic academics
too bad they proclaim academic pandemics
some only for the nerds
some only for the kicks
some only for the herds
infective clicks
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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At NIH, what tends to happen is that the proven researchers tend to get the money. New researchers, younger researchers, or people on the cutting edge don't get the money until they have gray beards.
quote by Mort Kondracke
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Slaughter
Towards the end of time,
My slaughter worked to unite
The peaceful nations.
I have to shave the beards of rational men,
Underneath the trees of fruit,
To beam on the loud voices.
This time my work never fell
Into ruins, the punishment arrived
And bought the goods of eternity.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Beware My Love
Cant say Ive found out,
I cant tell you
Whats all about.
Dont know who does,
I tell you to
Beware, my love.
Beware, my love.
Beware, my love.
Beware, my love.
Beware, my love.
Beware, my love.
Oh, oh, oh,
No, no, no.
I must be wrong, baby, yeah.
But I dont believe that hes the one,
But if you insist,
I must be wrong, I must be wrong,
I have to leave,
And when Im gone,
Ill leave my message in my song,
Thats right.
Beware, my love,
Hell bowl you over.
Beware, my love,
Before youre much older,
Hell sweep you up under his carpet.
Youd be in luck if you could stop it.
Come on, now.
Well, hell wear you out,
And in a miniute,
Youll hear a shout,
And then youll be in it.
So, so beware my love,
cause hell take you under.
Beware, my love,
The sound of his thunder;
Cant say (Ive) found out.
I tell you to
Beware, my love.
Beware, my love.
Beware, my love.
Beware, my love.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Amateur Photographer
Beware of those who slyly pilch
In many cunning ways;
Beware of little lyres that filch
From undisputed bays!
Beware the tumbler's beaded brim,
The ass in fiercer fur;
But most of all beware of him
Who makes my pen to stir--
THe Insecure
And Amateur
Implacable Photographer!
Beware lest, thieving for your thirst,
An earwig's in the plum!
Beware of folly, gay at first,
That later makes you glum!
Beware of pits when stars are dim,
The tooth of vagrant cur;
But most of all beware of him
That makes my pen to stir--
The masterful
Disasterful
Implacable Photographer!
Beware of angling in a stream
Whose trout are not for you;
Beware of trusting in a dream
That's gone before the dew!
Beware of truckling to a whim;
Of folks that always purr;
But most of all beware of him
That makes my pen to stir--
The premature
And Amateur
Implacable Photographer!
poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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Words Beyond
What were the lies in a truth
of the buried day?
Fabulous cries? Tears?
It was a tremble down
in the standing crop of men
ready to be genetically modified.
Each walk in the city
exhausts you to an innocent
tale of manipulated fiction.
Insects, yes insects
were climbing on the moon
like saints with flowing beards
to drink the blackness
of sky. There had been a method
in their madness, in death and whiteness.
poem by Satish Verma
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