It is not enough to have cabbage, one must have something to grease it.
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Song of the Little White Girl
Cabbage tree, cabbage tree, what is the matter?
Why are you shaking so? Why do you chatter?
Because it is just a white baby you see,
And it's the black ones you like, cabbage tree?
Cabbage tree, cabbage tree, you're a strange fellow
With your green hair and your legs browny-yellow.
Wouldn't you like to have curls, dear, like me?
What! No one to make them? O poor cabbage tree!
Never mind, cabbage tree, when I am taller,
And if you grow, please, a little bit smaller,
I shall be able by that time, bay be,
To make you the loveliest curls, cabbage tree.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Grease
Frankie valli - grease theme song
I solve my problems and I see the light
We got a lovin thing, we gotta feed it right
There aint no danger we can go to far
We start believing now that we can be what we are
Grease is the word
They think our love is just a growing pain
Why dont they understand, its just a crying shame
Their lips are lying only real is real
We stop the fight right now, we got to be what feel
Grease is the word
Its got groove its got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place, is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
We take the pressure and we throw away
Conventionalitly belongs to yesterday
There is a chance that we can make it so far
We start believing now but we can be who we are
Grease is the word
Its got groove its got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
This is the life of illusion
Wrapped up in trouble, laced with confusion
What are we doing here?
We take the pressure and we throw away
Conventionality belongs to yesterday
There is a chance that we can make it so far
We start believing now that we can be who we are
Grease is the word
Its got groove its got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
Grease is the word
Its got groove its got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
Grease is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
song performed by by Olivia Newton-John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grease
I saw my problems and Ill see the light
We got a lovin thing, we gotta feed it right
There aint no danger we can go too far
We start believin now that we can be who we are - grease is the word
They think our love is just a growin pain
Why dont they understand? its just a cryin shame
Their lips are lyin, only real is real
We stop the fight right now, we got to be what we feel - grease is the word
Chorus:
(grease is the word, is the word that you heard)
Its got a groove, its got a meaning
Grease is the time, is the place, is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
We take the pressure, and we throw away conventionality, belongs to yesterday
There is a chance that we can make it so far
We start believin now that we can be who we are - grease is the word
Chorus
This is a life of illusion, a life of control
Mixed with confusion - whatre we doin here?
We take the pressure, and we throw away conventionality, belongs to yesterday
There is a chance that we can make it so far
We start believin now that we can be who we are - grease is the word
Chorus repeats 2x
(grease is the word, is the word, is the word...)
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Greased Lightning
I had a dream, and you were in it.
You ran a race, but you didnt win it.
And I wasnt sorry to see you lose
I would have paid good money, to have them grease your shoes
Grease lightning, going no where at all
It was frightening to watch you skid, right into a fall
You spent your life expecting me to watch
So each time you slipped down, I cut a lower notch.
So I wasnt sorry to feel you slide.
If this is your body, Im a thorn in your side.
Grease lightning, going no where at all
It was frightening to watch you skid, right into a fall
If you think that its gone and forgotten, then youre wrong
Grease lightning, going no where at all
It was frightening to watch you skid, right into a fall
Grease lightning, going no where at all
It was frightening to watch you skid, right into a fall
song performed by by Liz Phair
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Slug City
There once was a family of slugs
That lived in a cabbage patch town
They went out every nite to eat
Found a cabbage and began to munch down
All through the night they could reduce
A cabbage to a stalk in the ground
All night they would munch and munch
But you would never here them, not nary a sound
But Mrs H was becoming fed up
Her patch the proudest around
With malace, blood red, she schemed
She vowed to eliminate those clowns
She purchased the best poison they had
She tried every trick she read
But the slugs just kept on coming
Every nite long after it was bed
Then a local wino he said
Out of the garden he could take
These inconsiderate gluttonous
Stylommatophora pulmonates
So he began by opening a beer
Placing some into a sphere
Putting them by each cabbage head
he said, 'This will make these slugs disappear.'
But by morning the cabbage was gone
Worse yet so was the beer
And if you looked even more closely
Tiny signs saying, 'Next time make it import you here.'
poem by Midnights Voice
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Reply to the Above, by F.W.F.
"Te quoque vatem dicunt pastores."—VIRGIL.
O Maxwell, if by reason’s strength
And studying of Babbage,
You have transformed yourself at length
Into a mental cabbage;
And if I've proved myself a lark
At morn and blushing even,
By soaring like a music-spark
Thro’ sapphire fields of Heaven,
Our diverse fates are now reversed
By strange metempsychosis,
Into a cabbage I have burst
And scorn poetic posies;
But you a lark with twinkling wings
O’er violet-banks are soaring;
Your voice the dewy rose-cloud rings
While Statics me are boring.
Yet cabbage as I will—on earth
My roots I cannot anchor,
For at my mathematic birth
Was also born a canker!
It soon will gnaw my roots away-—
But when I weigh a chœnix
I’ll freely soar to realms of day
An emerald cabbage-Phœnix.
Then talk not of the Poll to me,
I hate, detest, and scorn it;
I am as earnest as a bee,
But savage as a hornet.
And if they pluck me I will drown
Each pedant in a sonnet,
And of their pluckings make a crown
With golden plumes upon it.
So if my cabbage growth be slow
I'll try to be a carrot,
Or still remain a lark—but know
I'll not be Poll, or Parrot.
Then if I fall beneath the mark,
I’ll shout with accent savage,
"It is a lark to be a lark,
’Tis green to be a cabbage"
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Save Some Of That Grease You Do Not Eat
Did you plan to fill my nights,
With implanted enchantment?
With a pace...
Slowed in haste.
Did you picture me dazed,
Situated and elated...
With you as a mate?
That a kept faith,
Had brought and upon us fated?
Whatever it is,
You think will be delivered...
Don't wait,
For a chit chat debate.
Whatever it is,
You think will be delivered...
Don't wait,
Or become so fascinated.
Whatever it is,
You think will be delivered...
You'd be better off if you fried,
Onions and liver.
Whatever it is,
You think will be delivered...
Save some of that grease you do not eat!
Did you plan to fill my nights,
With implanted enchantment?
With a pace...
Slowed in haste.
Did you picture me dazed,
Situated and elated...
With you as a mate?
That kept faith had brought and fated?
Whatever it is,
You think will be delivered...
Don't wait,
For a chit chat debate.
Whatever it is,
You think will be delivered...
Save some of that grease you do not eat!
Whatever it is,
You think will be delivered...
Save some of that grease you do not eat!
Whatever it is,
You think will be delivered...
Save some of that grease you do not eat!
Whatever it is,
You think will be delivered...
Save some of that grease you do not eat!
Save some of that grease you do not eat!
Save some of that grease you do not eat!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Brilliantine
This hair,
They never looked her way,
Never understood from where she came
And digressed on the story of the grease
In her hair.
There was none.
They never touched her face,
Looked her way,
Nor saw importance in the moment
When she needed one
To hold her hand.
Or take the time for her
When it was called for.
It was the glossy brilliantine.
And the hidden styling.
The face again,
Which had the tendency to glance away.
And the hair which had no grease.
The clear hair that shone of cleanliness
In the light of the dirty windows.
The brown hair
Giving importance to the chrome
Of her eyes.
But they never looked away,
Digressing on the story of the grease
In her hair.
poem by Sammy Edrisi
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Talking Cabbage
A talking cabbage told me, it would prefer to be in a side salad
Than watch the news
The couch potato listless of endless media coverage
Said it would rather be mashed and squashed
Than bored by another soap
Then it changed it's mind
And said it would prefer to mingle with mayonaise and chives
The talking cabbage said it would rather be coleslaw
Than know the weather
At least it could mingle with the onion and the carrot together
The talking cabbage said
' I would rather have my own chat show than watch Jerermy Kyle'
And then thinking it was all a dream
I showed him the chopping board
SILENCE
Then the cucumber started
I decided to become A NON VEGETARIAN
But something is telling me the lamb chops are restless
The eggs are becoming quite unreasonable
Over the spilt milk
And the bread is unhappy with it's filling
Happiness never lasts!
Decided to fast
But the silence is unbearable,
Who can fill it?
So I turned on the news.......! ! ..
yvette smith
poem by Yvette Smith
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Athens Grease
If you're headin' south on
Georgia one twenty-nine
Straight into Athens past the Clark County line
There's an old Texaco right across
From the Athens Woolworth
Billy Joe Taylor's underneath that lift
There ain't a car on the planet that he can't fix
He swears on his chrome-plated ratchet
That his heaven on earth
Well, he can make a rusty muffler purr like a kitten
Or an old Nash Rambler top out at one-fifty
Georgia's never seen a man more at peace
Than when Billy's got his hands in
Athen's Grease
Six days a week, he's a man on a mission
He's the redneck Picasso of
The manual transmission
And the only man in town who can make
Charlie Vincent's van go
When the sun goes down
And the day is endin'
Billy's still rockin' with a rack and pinion
Long as that boy's at work, well he's right at home
Well, he can make a rusty muffler purr like a kitten
Or an old Nash Rambler top out at one-fifty
Georgia's never seen a man more at peace
Than when Billy's got his hands in
Athen's Grease
Well, he's a rotatin,' lug nuttin,'
Spark pluggin' good ole boy
With his name on his shirt
And Thelma Lou Taylor likes to hang out at the station
'Cause she loves to watch him work
Well, he can make a rusty muffler purr like a kitten
Or an old Nash Rambler top out at one-fifty
Georgia's never seen a man more at peace
Than when Billy's got his hands in
Athen's Grease
Yeah, Georgia's never seen a man more at peace
Than when Billy's got his hands in
Athen's grease
Athen's grease, baby
song performed by by Phil Vassar
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Shepherd
He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met,
An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet;
His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly wandered home.
I saw him but a moment—yet methinks I see him now
While his sheep were gently feeding 'neath the rugged mountain brow.
When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were gone;
A brand new suit of tweed and "Doctor Dod" he had put on;
Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain,
To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne.
I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace,
Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his face.
When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone,
The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on;
Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known track
From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back.
I saw him but a moment as he was walking by
With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-dropp in his eye.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Unnecessary
Unnecessary,
Auntie said,
when you asked
about taking the mutt
for a walk;
he can take himself
for a walk,
in fact,
she continued
straining the cabbage,
the green water
pushing through
the stainless steel colander,
he runs,
he loves to run
all over the fields.
You knew he did,
you used to run with him,
and being that kind of mutt
he’d let you run beside him,
you being a small boy,
you being the one
who shared his bacon rinds,
you the one who filled
his water bowl
when Auntie forgot.
Sit down now,
Auntie said,
dinner is about
to be served,
and I hope
you have washed
your hands,
and she’d dish you
a large serving
of cabbage
with your meal
and she didn’t see
how that was so
unnecessary.
poem by Terry Collett
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4th Chorus Mexico City Blues
Roosevelt was worth 6, 7 million dollars
He was Tight
Frog waits
Till poor fly
Flies by
And then they got him
The pool of clear rocks
Covered with vegetable scum
Covered the rocks
Clear the pool
Covered the warm surface
Covered the lotus
Dusted the watermelon flower
Aerial the Pad
Clean queer the clear
blue water
AND THEN THEY GOT HIM
The Oil of the Olive
Bittersweet taffies
Bittersweet cabbage
Cabbage soup made right
A hunk a grass
Sauerkraut let work
in a big barrel
Stunk but Good
poem by Jack Kerouac
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Old Town Types No.2 - Red Matt
He gleaned all the gossip and he gathered all the news,
Mad Matt, the carrier, delivering the grub;
He knew the trooper's tattle and he knew the parson's views,
The gossip at the station-yard, the gossip at the pub.
That high-pitched voice of his, the loudest voice in town,
That shrewd blue eye of his, with humor all a-gleam -
Old Red Matt, with his cabbage-tree hat,
His trolley, and his two-horse team.
Driving down the main street a-clatter with his load,
The great red beard of him blowing out behind:
'Hear about that accident's mornin' up the road?
Hear about the gold rush at Joe Scott's find?
Warmish sort o' day we got; thirsty weather this.
Got a bag o' spuds for you - Dang! Fergot the cream!'
Says old Red Matt with his cabbage-tree hat,
And his trolley, and his two-horse team.
Mad Matt, the carrier, standing at the bar:
'Well here's a go, boys. Got to get along
Seven pints I've had today and still to travel far.
Drink fast and drive fast, yeh can't go wrong.
Fill 'em up again, boss, ans hove it on the slate.
Half-a-ton aboard today - just tipped the beam,'
Says old red Matt with the cabbage-tree hat,
And his trolley, and his two-horse team.
Sudden were his wild ways, sudden, too, his end.
Jumped to grab a bolting team with kiddie sin the trap;
And they picked up Mad Matt, everybody's friend,
Silent now and broken; and they said, 'Brave chap.
Wild an' all,' they said of him, 'always was a white man.'
And they laid him, with a blessing, where his old mates dream,
Saying, 'So long, Matt, with your cabbage-tree hat,
And your trolley, and your two-horse team.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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He is like the gardener's dog, who don't eat cabbage and will let no one else eat them.
Childhood Memories Four: Dances With Gravity
down the rabbit hole
of childhood memories
we tumble into lost world
watching Father chase white butterflies
which eat our growing cabbage leaves
with a tennis racket with foot work
leaps bounds serves volleys never seen
upon famed centre court at Wimbledon
butterflies fly float move in fluttering
unpredictable motion dances with gravity
overcome baiting my father into youthful
dances on past childhood hot summer days
this game I too played mastered but why
so rarely in retrospect such fun so seldom
played among a host of unpattented games
to up the stakes for mass extinction Derris
dust sprinkled on cabbage leaves discolours
leaves white butterflies land leave unabated
but knocks out the sucking and chewing
insects for a six at caterpillar dinner time
when rain has not washed powder sprinkled
off cabbage leaves alas it is a no-win game
set upon set waiting for new service white
butterflies as they fly in from neighbouring
gardens the game goes on until we tire or
new balls spread danger word signaling with
broken garden bodies in game we can't win!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Both the goat has enough to eat and the cabbage remains.
I like to get where the cabbage is cooking and catch the scents.