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Remember That Turkey Stuffed
Slip me a witch and be done with it.
Then give me a hee-hi-ho!
Let's both benefit from this wickedness.
Then slip me a ho-to-go!
La la la la lahhhh
Lee lee lee lee leeeee
Loo loo loo loo loo lah low.
And for all who have not had a good screwing all this year...
May those turkeys you stuff have tasty rears.
Slip me a witch and be done with it.
Then give me a hee-hi-ho!
Let's both benefit from this wickedness.
Then slip me a ho-to-go!
La la la la lahhhh
Lee lee lee lee leeeee
Loo loo loo loo loo lah low.
And for all who have not had a good screwing all this year...
May those turkeys you stuff have tasty rears.
May you taste a good turkey stuffed...
With cheer!
La la la la lahhhh
Lee lee lee lee leeeee
Loo loo loo loo loo lah low.
And for all who have not had a good screwing all this year...
May those turkeys you stuff,
Have juicy rears!
'Oh...
Such a festive decadence.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The bush fowl saw the chicken being carved up and laughed. The chicken told the bush fowl to stop laughing. For the same hands now carving up the chicken would be used to carve up the bush fowl.
Trees are more like FOWLS,
Trees are more like FOWL'S,
Trees are more like FOWL'S,
The Birds that EMERGED is greater than 40's and 80's,
This Historic moment is like a TIGER,
Taking this THOUGHT,
There is the NEW EMERGING of FOWLS,
Imagine of another New Composure maybe another MISSION completed for these BIRDS,
The Birds will flow in all COLOUR'S since the love of God hast no STATUS.
poem by Maxim Muyu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ch 03 On The Excellence Of Contentment Story 19
I never lamented about the vicissitudes of time or complained of the turns of fortune except on the occasion when I was barefooted and unable to procure slippers. But when I entered the great mosque of Kufah with a sore heart and beheld a man without feet I offered thanks to the bounty of God, consoled myself for my want of shoes and recited:
‘A roast fowl is to the sight of a satiated man
Less valuable than a blade of fresh grass on the table
And to him who has no means nor power
A burnt turnip is a roasted fowl.’
A World Apart And Distances Growing.
A world apart and distances growing.
What have I got to do to stop you in your path?
What have I got to do to stop you from laughing in my face?
Laughing at the faith I wear upon my sleeve.
Make believe, fairy tale wisdoms extinct.
Romance is dead, the rose withered,
The green eyed monster rears its ugly head.
Distance yourself from the past,
If you remember the good times,
You’ll recall, well, they were too good to last
Drifting, kiss me, lift me up man, and give me a little push,
Set me on my way,
Spit it out
All you have to say.
poem by David Lacey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Duck! Don't Stick Your Neck Out
How many quacks does a quack quack quack
before he ducks for fish?
How many ducks does a quack quack duck
before his fish is fished?
How many geese's goose is cooked
because they ate up all the fish?
How many cooks cook geese
before their goose is cooked?
How many fowl fall foul
of fowl hunting cooks?
How many fowls' geese are cooked
before they flew from a foul hunting cook?
How many ducks' goose is cooked
because he didn't duck duck duck
when a fowl cook reached for his neck?
poem by David Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nursery Rhyme
One year, two year, three year, four,
Comes a khaki gentleman knocking at the door.
'Any little boys at home, send them out to me
To train them and brain them in battles yet to be.'
When a little boy is born feed him, train him so.
Put him in a cattle pen and wait for him to grow.
When he's nice and plump and dear, and sensible and sweet,
Throw him in the trenches for the great grey rats to eat.
Toss him in the cannon's mouth, cannons fancy best
Tender little boys' flesh that's easy to digest.
Mother rears her family on two pounds ten a week.
Teaches them to wash themselves, teaches them to speak.
Rears them with a heart's love, rears them to be men.
Grinds her fingers to the bone, and then... what then?
But parents who must rear the boys the cannons love to slay,
Also pay for cannons that blow other boys away.
Parsons tell them that their sons have just been blown to bits.
Patriotic parents must all laugh like fits.
Rear the boys for honest men and send them out to die!
Where's the coward father who would dare raise a cry?
Any gentleman's aware folk rear their children for
Blunderers and plunderers to mangle in a war!
Five year, six year, seven year, eight.
'Hurry up you little chaps, the captain's at the gate!'
poem by Frank Wilmot
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I am truly sorry that a fowl of Canada is no longer with us.
quote by Dave Winfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Invite your son-in-law to a fowl, and he will take away the lemon.
The hunting party
One weekend a hunting party
comes together on Serfaas Lourens’s farm
and they consist out of family, friends
and town folk:
two teachers, the school principal,
a lawyer, a visiting advocate and magistrate.
The group is dressed in hunting clothes
and with four by four pickups they drive
through the open veldt
past the stream with the blue gum trees.
Guinea fowl and pheasants fly up into the air,
the vehicles brake in a cloud of dust
while hunter after hunter jumps down
with shotgun upon shotgun blasting into the air.
The son of Serfaas Lourens
is shooting with a ELG-12 bore
with red LG cartridges, as if
he wants to teach the older men something
but they find only pieces
of his guinea fowl
and with the trip back
Serfaas Lourens reprimands him
all the way to the homestead
to use the right ammunition.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Caged Skylark
As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage,
Man's mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells --
That bird beyond the remembering h{'i}s free fells;
This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life's age.
Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage
Both sing somet{'i}mes the sweetest, sweetest spells,
Yet both droop deadly s{'o}metimes in their cells
Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.
Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest --
Why, hear him, hear him babble |&| drop down to his nest,
But his own nest, wild nest, no prison.
Man's spirit will be flesh-bound, when found at best,
But {'u}nc{'u}mber{`e}d: meadow-d{'o}wn is n{'o}t distr{'e}ssed
For a r{'a}inbow f{'o}oting it nor h{'e} for his b{'o}nes r{'i}sen.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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