Call someone your lord and he'll sell you in the slave market.
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The Price Of The Cock
THE PRICE OF THE COCK
A WOMAN STOLE A COCK AND TOOK IT TO THE MARKET TO SELL IT, WHILST AT THE MARKET, SMARTER THIEVES STOLE THE COCK FROM HER AND SHE WENT BACK HOME SOBER!
ON HER ARRIVAL AT HER HOUSE, AN INQUISITIVE NEIGHBOUR ASKED, DEAR NEIGHBOUR, YOUR COCK WHICH YOU TOOK TO THE MARKET, HOW MUCH DID YOU SELL IT? SHE ASKED AND THE SOBER WOMAN REPLIED, IT WAS SOLD FOR EXACTLY THE SAME PRICE FOR WHICH IT WAS BOUGHT!
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If you call a lady a slave, she laughs, but if you call a slave a slave, he cries.
O Precious Lord
Oh precious Lord I call on you
Call upon your Holy name
Oh precious Lord send your Spirit now
Come and light your Holy flame
Oh precious Lord in times of need
When there's no-one else around
Oh precious Lord it seems like your not there
And there's no help to be found
Oh precious Lord, will I never learn
Whether hills or depths of seas
That I will always find you Lord
When I get upon my knees
Oh precious Lord, I call on you
And exalt your Holy name
I praise you Lord and I worship you
And I praise your Holy flame
Oh precious Lord, I call on you
Call upon your Holy name
Yesterday, today, and forever Lord
You will always be the same
poem by Frank McEleny
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Sailor and the Market Man
'I ask you to see reason'
Says the sailor who is stern;
'You know full well that from the sea
A living I must earn;
I'll bother you to shake on it,
I haven't got all day;
Come on now make your mind up,
It ain't a lot to pay! '
'My friend, your price is far too high'
The market-man declares,
'Go find another buyer now
Who'll rid you of your wares.
I know the fish you bring to sell
Are fat and fresh and sound,
But I must make a living too
By watching every pound.'
The sailor and the market-man
They argue every day,
As if there's no tomorrow,
And each must have his say.
The sailor and the market-man
At odds they'll always be,
Until they've taken all
The little fishes from the sea.
Written Dec 1994
poem by John Carter Brown
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Once More Into the Fire
Once more into the fire, my Lord, once more into the fire
Another one calling to be saved, Lord, what shall I do?
Therefore to offer help I go once more into the fire
Once more into the fire, my Lord, once more into the fire
I can't save her with my own two hands, Lord, what shall I do?
To offer her your strong arms, Lord, once more into the fire
Once more into the fire, my Lord, once more into the fire
What of the others who won't call out, Lord, what shall I do?
Pray for them and call to them, Lord, once more into the fire
One last time into the fire, Lord, once more into the fire
I see You reaching now out to me, Lord, what shall I do?
Take your hand to climb out, Lord, nevermore into the fire
((April 6th,2005))
poem by Danny Speicher
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Market Day
There’s a market in our town, two days a week.
It’s nice to have a browse and take a quick peek.
There’s a riot of colours up and down the street,
And mouth-watering smells from all the food to eat.
There’s an explosion of different sights and sounds,
And dozens of people are leisurely milling around.
At the market, there’s always a great atmosphere,
And there’s nothing for sale there which is too dear.
A mobile van serves up spicy German bratwurst,
Plus a variety of different drinks to quench your thirst.
On one stall, they sell leather purses and handbags:
Cheap ones, plus designer ones, for the would-be WAGs.
In his mobile truck, a rotund butcher chops up some meat:
He promises his customers that his prices can’t be beat.
There’s a stall which sells low price pet supplies.
This is always a big attraction for the penny wise.
Hoping that none of his food will end up in the waste,
The Mediterranean food stall holder offers a free taste.
There are crisps and cakes stacked in crates,
Which are not long off of their sell by date.
From yet another stall, drifts an amazing perfumed smell.
They sell a variety of novelty soap and bath bombs as well.
A Jeweller displays a variety of items made of silver and gold.
He also buys any old unwanted jewellery, if it is being sold.
Then, of course, there’s the doughnut man –
Of this particular stall, I’m a very big fan!
Each market trader has their own unique call,
Trying to attract the customers to their stall.
They brave all weathers – the heat and the freezing cold,
Hoping that, by the close of day, their wares will be sold.
At the end of the day, there are real bargains to be found,
Such as a box of mixed fruit or veg for only a pound.
Come late afternoon, they pack up after a long day.
They load up their vans and are soon on their way.
When they have all gone, all that is left is a space,
And, of the market, there isn’t left a single trace.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wooing
A YOUTH went faring up and down,
Alack and well-a-day.
He fared him to the market town,
Alack and well-a-day.
And there he met a maiden fair,
With hazel eyes and auburn hair;
His heart went from him then and there,
Alack and well-a-day.
She posies sold right merrily,
Alack and well-a-day;
But not a flower was fair as she,
Alack and well-a-day.
He bought a rose and sighed a sigh,
'Ah, dearest maiden, would that I
Might dare the seller too to buy!'
Alack and well-a-day.
She tossed her head, the coy coquette,
Alack and well-a-day.
'I'm not, sir, in the market yet,'
Alack and well-a-day.
'Your love must cool upon a shelf;
Tho' much I sell for gold and pelf,
I'm yet too young to sell myself,'
Alack and well-a-day.
The youth was filled with sorrow sore,
Alack and well-a-day;
And looked he at the maid once more,
Alack and well-a-day.
Then loud he cried, 'Fair maiden, if
Too young to sell, now as I live,
You're not too young yourself to give,'
Alack and well-a-day.
The little maid cast down her eyes,
Alack and well-a-day,
And many a flush began to rise,
Alack and well-a-day.
'Why, since you are so bold,' she said,
'I doubt not you are highly bred,
So take me!' and the twain were wed,
Alack and well-a-day.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 48
I saw bouquets of fresh roses
Tied upon a cupola of grass.
I asked: ‘What is despicable grass
To sit also in the line of the roses?’
The grass wept and said: ‘Hush!
Companionship does not obliterate nobility.
Although I have no beauty, colour and perfume,
Am I not after all the grass of his garden?
I am the slave of a bountiful lord,
Cherished from old by his liberality.
Whether I possess virtue or not
I hope for grace from the Lord
Although I possess no property
No capital to offer as obedience.
He knows the remedy for the slave
To whom no support remains.
It is customary that the owner gives a writ
Of emancipation to an old slave.
O God, who hast adorned the universe,
Be bountiful to thy old slave.’
Sa’di, take the road to the Ka’bah of submission.
O man of God, follow the way of God.
Unlucky is he who turns his head
Away from this door for he will find no other door.
But you have to be creative on how you sell yourself and market yourself.
quote by Talib Kweli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Smallprint
take,
take all you need
and I'll compensate your greed
with broken hearts
sell,
and I'll sell your memories
for fifteen pounds per year
but just the good days
save,
It will make you insane
and it's bending the truth
you're to blame
for all the life that you're losing
you watch this space
but I'm going all the way
and be my slave to the grave
I'm a priest god never paid
hope,
and I hope you've seen the light
cus no-one really cares
they're just pretending
sell,
and I'll sell your memories
for fifteen pounds per year
but you can keep the bad days
save,
It will make you insane
and I'm bending the truth
you're to blame
for all the life that you're losing
you watch this space
but I'm going all the way
and be my slave to the grave
I'm a priest god never paid
save,
it will make you insane
and I'm bending the truth
you're to blame
for all the life that you're losing
you watch this space
and I'm going all the way
and be my slave to the grave
I'm a priest god never paid
song performed by by Muse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You will sell more sheepskins at the market than wolfskins.
You sell more herrings on the market than sole.
Buy in the cheapest market and sell in the dearest.
Buy good quality and sell at the market price.
Market Square
I had a penny,
A bright new penny,
I took my penny
To the market square.
I wanted a rabbit,
A little brown rabbit,
And I looked for a rabbit
'Most everywhere.
For I went to the stall where they sold sweet lavender
("Only a penny for a bunch of lavender!").
"Have you got a rabbit, 'cos I don't want lavender?"
But they hadn't got a rabbit, not anywhere there.
I had a penny,
And I had another penny,
I took my pennies
To the market square.
I did want a rabbit,
A little baby rabbit,
And I looked for rabbits
'Most everywhere.
And I went to the stall where they sold fresh mackerel
("Now then! Tuppence for a fresh-caught mackerel!").
"Have you got a rabbit, 'cos I don't like mackerel?"
But they hadn't got a rabbit, not anywhere there.
I found a sixpence,
A little white sixpence.
I took it in my hand
To the market square.
I was buying my rabbit
I do like rabbits),
And I looked for my rabbit
'Most everywhere.
So I went to the stall where they sold fine saucepans
("Walk up, walk up, sixpence for a saucepan!").
"Could I have a rabbit, 'cos we've got two saucepans?"
But they hadn't got a rabbit, not anywhere there.
I had nuffin',
No, I hadn't got nuffin',
So I didn't go down
To the market square;
But I walked on the common,
The old-gold common...
And I saw little rabbits
'Most everywhere!
So I'm sorry for the people who sell fine saucepans,
I'm sorry for the people who sell fresh mackerel,
I'm sorry for the people who sell sweet lavender,
'Cos they haven't got a rabbit, not anywhere there!
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No use crying at the market, sell your fur coat and drink the money.
The slave loves his master
It is a pleasure
For a master to command his slave.
It is a pleasure
For a slave to attend his master’s call.
The difference is
That the slave’s pleasure is for love.
30.06.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The labor market is the place where the slave can choose his master.
quote by Octav Bibere
Submitted by Kitsy Bush
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The good man, though a slave, is free; the wicked, though he reigns, is a slave, and not the slave of a single man, but — what is worse — the slave of as many masters as he has vices.
quote by Saint Augustine
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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