Golden bishop, wooden crosier; wooden bishop, golden crosier.
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Lines Rhymed In A Letter From Oxford
I.
The Gothic looks solemn,
The plain Doric column
Supports an old Bishop and Crosier;
The mouldering arch,
Shaded o'er by a larch
Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier.
II.
Vice--that is, by turns,--
O'er pale faces mourns
The black tassell'd trencher and common hat;
The Chantry boy sings,
The Steeple-bell rings,
And as for the Chancellor--dominat.
III.
There are plenty of trees,
And plenty of ease,
And plenty of fat deer for Parsons;
And when it is venison,
Short is the benison,--
Then each on a leg or thigh fastens.
poem by John Keats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Closing Arguments
In closing, ladies and gentlemen of the jury
I'm not gonna sit here and bore you with a long, drawn out story
Or excuse, of why i think wyclef is guilty
I'm gonna stand by the exhibits as well as the tapes
And songs such as jeapordy, til novemeber, all the girls,
And bubblegoose, which stand side by side with my allegations
I rest my case
Ok, uhh, ladiessss, and gentle-men, of the juwy
As you can see nuttin has been proven here today
Deez witnesses dey brought ere don't not have evidence
To incriminate my client eh?
If he's not guilty he's innocent
If he's not detrimental to the society therefore he positive!
As i say before, dis case is pure bishop
Your honor see, this, this is exactly what i'm talkin about
I mean i've been meaning to ask this the whole time
Who the hell is bishop?
Eh?
And and why the hell hasn't he been brought on the stand?
Bishop, bishop, not true, false, bishop
Ohh, bullshit!
Oui
song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Closing Arguments (Interlude/Skit)
In closing, ladies and gentlemen of the jury
I'm not gonna sit here and bore you with a long, drawn out story
or excuse, of why I think Wyclef is guilty
I'm gonna stand by the exhibits as well as the tapes
And songs such as Jeapordy, Til Novemeber, All the Girls,
and Bubblegoose, which stand side by side with my allegations
I rest my case
OK, uhh, ladiessss, and gentle-men, of the juwy
As you can see nuttin has been proven here today
DEEZ witnesses dey brought ere don't not have evidence
to incriminate my client eh?
If he's not guilty he's innocent
If he's not detrimental to the society therefore he positive!
As I say before, dis case is pure bishop
Your honor see, this, this is exactly what I'm talkin about
I mean I've been meaning to ask this the whole time
Who the hell is Bishop?
Eh?
And and why the hell hasn't he been brought on the stand?
Bishop, bishop, not true, false, bishop
Ohh, bullshit!
Oui
song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I think a bishop who doesn't give offence to anyone is probably not a good bishop.
quote by James Thomson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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(Hide and seek)
My father gets the wooden stick
he counts from five
i run and hide...
My father is coming with the wooden stick
he counts from four
i close my bedroom door...
My father is looking for me with the wooden stick
he counts from three
as he searches for me...
My father is close by with the wooden stick
he counts from two
my face turns blue...
My father is right next to me
with the wooden stick
he counts from one
now i'm done...
My father finds me
with the wooden stick
he counts from zero
...yes i know, i'm in trouble...
My father says
'there you are!
i found you
now it's your turn to count
and my turn to hide'
...and the game continued...
poem by Allen Steble
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Bishop's Robes
Dressed in Bishop's robes
Terrifies me still
In Bishop's robes
Bastard headmaster
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
Children taught to kill
To tear themselves to bits
On playing fields
Dressed in Bishop's robes
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Golden Age
All the screens are filled with heroes and losers
but the sky's still filled with stars
this junky palace might be on fire
til the winners lose desire
let it go let it go.
So tell me what you see
tell me what you hear
if it's the same as me it's the golden age.
Big brother tries to stitch and bend
but channel surfers find new friends
see freedom's silhouette increase
its time to claim that sweet release
let it go let it go.
I can see a purple patch of jacaranda
framed in eucalypt from this wooden floored verandah
heading past the watermark
heading for the hills
heading for the edge of time
heading for the thrills of the golden age.
Now tell me what you see
and tell me what you hear
if it's the same as me it's the golden age.
Now everybody's talking about the golden age.
song performed by by Midnight Oil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.
quote by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Only You
We suffer everyday, what is it for
These crimes of illusion, are fooling us all
And now I am weary and I feel like I do
Its only you, who can tell me apart
And its only you, who can turn my wooden heart
The size of our fight, its just a dream
Weve crushed everything I can see, in this morning selfishly
How weve failed and I feel like I do
Its only you, who can tell me apart
And its only you, who can turn my wooden heart
Now that weve chosen to take all we can
This shade of autumn, a stale bitter end
Years of frustration lay down side by side
And its only you, who can tell me apart
And its only you, who can turn my wooden heart
Its only you, who can tell me apart
And its only you, who can turn my wooden heart
song performed by by Portishead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Better walk on wooden legs, than be carried on a wooden bier.
Questions of Travel
There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
--For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren't waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled.
Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?
But surely it would have been a pity
not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
--Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted, wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs
carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.)
--A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.
--Yes, a pity not to have pondered,
blurr'dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
--Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
--And never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politicians' speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:
"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come
to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one's room?
Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?"
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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In 1843
My love will touch you like your wooden spoon!
My mind will teach you like your wooden ladder,
My words will touch you like your wooden bowl,
But, to be speechless in lkife will lead you nowhere.
The first 'Christmas card' was invented and designed in 1843! !
So before 1843 there was no 'Christmas Cards' as seen around us today;
Howevr, i am like an old man along the sea of love telling you the truth,
So, you can't run away from your own self! When, the truth is around you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Man With The Golden Gun
The man
With the golden gun
Is waiting
Somewhere
Out there
For you
But you'll never see him
He'll be looking for you
Demand
For the golden gun
It's high priced
Precise
And true
But you'll never see him
He'll be looking for you
The man with the golden
Gun in his pocket, Oh, oh
The man with the golden
Gun in his case, Oh, oh
The man with the golden
Gun in your face
But you'll never see him
He'll be looking for you
You better believe
He'll be looking for you
He-e-e-e-e-e's, The man with the golden
Gun in his pocket
The man with the golden
Gun in his case
The man with the golden
Gun in his pocket
The man with the golden
Gun in your face
But you'll never see him
He'll be looking for you
You better believe
He'll be looking for yo-ou
He-e-e-e-e-e's, The man with the golden
Gun in his pocket
The man with the golden
Gun in his case
The man with the golden
Gun in his pocket
The man with the golden
Gun in your face
The man with the go-o-olden
Gun in his pocket
The man with the go-o-lden
Gun in his case
The man who gave you the golden gun
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sandpiper (Cavatina)
(after Elizabeth Bishop)
The leaping spray that roar, the swishing fling
of surf and sand,
plays in and out as waves rush to and thro;
where it does stand
while searching for something on tiny legs;
it understands
the roaring toss, a world of surf and foam,
while rushing on the wet beach it does roam.
[Reference: 'Sandpiper' by Elizabeth Bishop.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Wooden Heart
(words & music by wise - weisman - twomey - kaemfert)
Can't you see
I love you
Please don't break my heart in two
That's not hard to do
'cause i don't have a wooden heart
And if you say goodbye
Then i know that i would cry
Maybe i would die
'cause i don't have a wooden heart
There's no strings upon this love of mine
It was always you from the start
Treat me nice
Treat me good
Treat me like you really should
'cause i'm not made of wood
And i don't have a wooden heart
Muss i denn, muss i denn
Zum stadtele hinaus
Stadtele hinaus
Und du, mein schat, bleibst hier?
There's no strings upon this love of mine
It was always you from the start
Sei mir gut
Sei mir gut
Sei mir wie du wirklich sollst
Wie du wirklich sollst
'cause i don't have a wooden heart
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf X. -- Raud The Strong
'All the old gods are dead,
All the wild warlocks fled;
But the White Christ lives and reigns,
And throughout my wide domains
His Gospel shall be spread!'
On the Evangelists
Thus swore King Olaf.
But still in dreams of the night
Beheld he the crimson light,
And heard the voice that defied
Him who was crucified,
And challenged him to the fight.
To Sigurd the Bishop
King Olaf confessed it.
And Sigurd the Bishop said,
'The old gods are not dead,
For the great Thor still reigns,
And among the Jarls and Thanes
The old witchcraft still is spread.'
Thus to King Olaf
Said Sigurd the Bishop.
'Far north in the Salten Fiord,
By rapine, fire, and sword,
Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong;
All the Godoe Isles belong
To him and his heathen horde.'
Thus went on speaking
Sigurd the Bishop.
'A warlock, a wizard is he,
And lord of the wind and the sea;
And whichever way he sails,
He has ever favoring gales,
By his craft in sorcery.'
Here the sign of the cross
Made devoutly King Olaf.
'With rites that we both abhor,
He worships Odin and Thor;
So it cannot yet be said,
That all the old gods are dead,
And the warlocks are no more,'
Flushing with anger
Said Sigurd the Bishop.
Then King Olaf cried aloud:
'I will talk with this mighty Raud,
And along the Salten Fiord
Preach the Gospel with my sword,
Or be brought back in my shroud!'
So northward from Drontheim
Sailed King Olaf!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Rule Your Own World
The golden stool,
The golden love,
The golden horse,
The golden muse,
The golden egg;
But cleanliness is next to excellence! !
And like the joy of peace,
But, try to rule your world in peace without hurting your neighbour.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Time Past
The old wooden steps to the front door
where I was sitting that fall morning
when you came downstairs, just awake,
and my joy at sight of you (emerging
into golden day—
the dew almost frost)
pulled me to my feet to tell you
how much I loved you:
those wooden steps
are gone now, decayed
replaced with granite,
hard, gray, and handsome.
The old steps live
only in me:
my feet and thighs
remember them, and my hands
still feel their splinters.
Everything else about and around that house
brings memories of others—of marriage,
of my son. And the steps do too: I recall
sitting there with my friend and her little son who died,
or was it the second one who lives and thrives?
And sitting there ‘in my life,’ often, alone or with my husband.
Yet that one instant,
your cheerful, unafraid, youthful, ‘I love you too,’
the quiet broken by no bird, no cricket, gold leaves
spinning in silence down without
any breeze to blow them,
is what twines itself
in my head and body across those slabs of wood
that were warm, ancient, and now
wait somewhere to be burnt.
poem by Denise Levertov
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They
The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back
'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
'In a just cause: they lead the last attack
'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
'New right to breed an honourable race,
'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'
'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.
'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.
' And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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