He that will be rich before night, may be hanged before noon.
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He who wants to be rich in a year is hanged at six months' end.
He who wishes to be rich within a day, will be hanged within a year.
quote by Leonardo da Vinci
Submitted by Catalin Popescu
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He who would be rich in a year gets hanged in six months.
He who wishes to be rich in a day will be hanged in a year.
quote by Leonardo da Vinci
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If you would be rich in a year, you may be hanged in six months.
The Old Man's Lament
The child-sun blazes
through grey morning fog
his passion overpowers
night’s sluggish slog
‘till bright noon’s on fire
with his effervescent love,
but it’s all the same, it’s
all the same.
Morning, noon, and night
may embrace our little lives,
but it’s all the same.
The ancient moon rises
in the fast-fading east.
Bloody sun dies, failed day retreats,
but it’s all the same, it’s all
the same.
Morning, noon, and night
may consume our little lives
but it’s all the same, all
the same.
poem by Steven Federle
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Lully, Lulley
Lully, lulley, lully, lulley,
The faucon hath borne my make away.
He bare him up, he bare him down,
He bare him into an orchard brown.
In that orchard there was an halle
That hanged with purpill and pall.
And in that hall there was a bede;
It was hanged with gold so rede.
And in that bed there lithe a knight,
His woundes bleding day and night.
By that bede side kneleth a may,
And she wepeth both night and day.
And by that bede side there stondeth a stone,
Corpus Christi wreten there on.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Who Is Rich?
I strive to be rich,
to travel on the roads,
of the capital cities,
in Sedan or limousine.
I work hard to be rich,
to find a lot in Beverly hills,
to buy an aircraft and
a hover to fly and float.
I work day and half night,
to be rich to others sight,
to smoke a cigar of an inch,
and a few girls to pinch.
scanty girls of Los vegas,
dress up, for a living,
trendy sad faced Indians,
walk alone for a living.
I want to be rich,
traveling as a rat,
through the holes of,
capital cities.
She wants to be rich,
He wants to be rich and
we want to be rich, but
people call us rich.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Sky and Moon
I see the sky and moon in the bright night,
Inside I see and hear them crawl both toward us,
Thus, our moons are complete and the azure sky also
As it forms for our privilege of seeing and gazing at noon.
The noon is apt to wander into night before anything happens,
But this black ocean will stop at the stone feet of mountains,
Huge volcanoes that burst in the night and day,
Forever in this way, jolting our brains with their thunder and night-laughter.
Many gods and goddesses are against us now,
Immediately we lift our eyes to the clear sky
As named by the gods, as called by the priests.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Hod Putt
Here I lie close to the grave
Of Old Bill Piersol,
Who grew rich trading with the indians, and who
Afterwards took the bankrupt law
And emergeed from it richer than ever.
Myself grown tired of toil and poverty
And beholding how Old Bill and others grew in wealth,
Robbed a traveler one night near Proctor's Grove,
Killing him unwittingly while doing so,
For the which I was tried and hanged.
That was my way of going into bankruptcy.
Now we who took the bankrupt law in our respective ways
Sleep peacefully side by side.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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When the wind started blowing in the afternoon
When the wind started blowing in the afternoon,
some African red-knobbed coots rose in a screaming row,
while the sun hanged over the water red like fire
and the twilight only lasted moments
while they flew past with slapping wings,
when the wind started blowing in the afternoon,
I felt a light breeze blowing against my cheek,
there was serenity and peace that came to me
while the sun hanged over the water red like fire,
there was a kind of bliss in nature
when dappled Egyptian goose also tried to avoid me,
when the wind started blowing in the afternoon,
I was caught by the sheer beauty,
I heard the call of birds cutting through the reeds,
while the sun hanged over the water red like fire
while the sky was darker and no more azure,
while ducks glide magically through the water,
when the wind started blowing in the afternoon,
the sun hanged over the water red like fire.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I'd Rather Be Loved
I'd rather be loved,
Than to be painted...
As somebody that I aint,
To then be tainted.
I'd rather be loved,
Than to be sainted.
As someone that's depicted,
In a way to be shamed.
And by...
The light of the moon,
I want to be seen as the person that I am!
And by...
The dawn until noon,
I want to be seen as the person that I am!
I'd rather be loved...
Under bright lighted moon.
And,
Seen to be the person that I am.
I'd rather be loved...
From the dawning 'til noon.
By somebody who completely understands.
I'd rather be loved...
Under bright lighted moon.
I'd rather be loved...
From the dawning 'til noon.
And...
By that one who knows and understands.
I'd rather be loved...
From the dawning 'til noon.
And,
When night falls we know there's no demands.
And...
When night falls we're there and understand.
And...
We know what we do and what we can.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Ballade of the hours of night
Our love had bloomed fully
when naked you came to me
with a small towel covering you,
when it fell from your body
and your eyes caught mine glittering,
when silence hanged luring between us.
There was a kind of hunger and thirst in me,
when your lips found mine,
with your hair braiding through my fingers
when the alarm slowly counted the time
and we both were longing for something eternal,
when silence hanged luring between us.
Like falling rain was the smell of us both
on the big old fluffy blanket
with your legs and arms crossed over me,
when my heartbeats sounded in my ears,
and there was a much deeper more intense urge
when silence hanged luring between us.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Corpus Christi Carol
He bear her off, he bear her down
He bear her into an orchard ground
Lu li lu lay lu li lu lay
The falcon hath bourne my mate away
And in this orchard there was a hold
That was hanged with purple and gold
And in that hold there was a bed
And it was hanged with gold so red
Lu li lu lay lu li lu lay
The falcon hath bourne my mate away
And on this bed there lyeth a knight
His wound is bleeding day and night
By his bedside kneeleth a maid
And she weepeth both night and day
Lu li lu lay lu li lu lay
The falcon hath bourne my mate away
By his bedside standeth a stone
Corpus christi written thereon
song performed by by Jeff Buckley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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VALE RONALD RYAN (Febuary 1976)
Ronald Ryan was the last person hanged in Victoria.
Shortly after hanging was abolished in Australia.
The barbarism of the procedure,
worse than any Greek tragedy.
No, this wasn't theatre,
this was murder!
We hanged a man to satisfy
a drunken premier's whim.
Therefore the sin of omission
rests with him;
Not the man who pulled the lever.
poem by Jerry Hughes
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Are you rich?
Because parents are rich
I am not rich.
Because brothers or sisters
Or in-laws are rich,
Because own children are rich
I am no richer.
Unless I myself am rich
I cannot be rich.
Too late to understand
And hence poor I went.
Agartala
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Ghosts' High Noon
When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the
moonlight flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies -
When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs
bay the moon,
Then is the spectres' holiday - then is the ghosts' high noon!
As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie
low on the fen,
From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women
and men,
And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too
soon,
For cockcrow limits our holiday - the dead of the night's high
noon!
And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds
take flight,
With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good
night";
Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its
jolliest tune,
And ushers our next high holiday - the dead of the night's high
noon!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Fredman's song no. 10
Drink till after twelve or more,
Live it up with madmen !
Earth is but my chamber floor
And the sun my lantern.
Nothing else is worth a pin
If my head but giddy spin,
Giddy spin, giddy spin,
Giddy spin, giddy spin,
Until it's so drowsy
Nothing more can rouse me.
In my grandad's overcoat,
Torn and out at elbows,
Here I stand, on brandy dote,
'Mid the queerest fellows;
Out of pretty goblets bright
Tipple morning noon and night,
Noon and night, noon and night,
Noon and night, noon and night,
Till I'm just another
Boozy red-nosed brother.
If my sainted father stood
Suddenly before me
"Son", he'd hiccup, "skål ! That's good,
Brandy best doth warm me."
"Brother mine," I'd then reply,
Let us toast the morning sky,
Morning sky, morning sky,
Morning sky, morning sky,
Then to thy repose, sir,
Thou again mayst go, sir."
Were I but a man of wealth,
Gold my pocket lining,
Christmas day I'd dress myself
Like the king, when dining.
Then I'd purchase and I'd use
Coat and waistcoat and new shoes,
New shoes, new shoes,
New shoes, new shoes,
And of course I'd buy, sir,
A watch upon my thigh, sir !
But my throat can't stand such loss,
'Tis a very drought, sir.
What is gold, when got, but dross ?
Pull the cork right out, sir !
Let us steady on our legs,
Drain this bottle to the dregs,
To the dregs, to the dregs,
To the dregs, to the dregs,
Then let death attack us
In the blood of Bacchus.
poem by Carl Michael Bellman
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