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Intermix
Intermix the polishing of a forgotten summer,
The parson cools me after the furthest colour.
Furtive numerals are held in the mind when furthest,
Novelties of an oaf nurse on nothing.
Numerous designs matter on the shelf,
Gory oaths are honourable and gouging strength.
Let colours intermix and let the parson mix with us,
The length of numbers are called equations for us.
Gormandize the food once you steal,
The parson refuses to renovate your reality.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Longer Boats
Longer boats are coming to win us
Theyre coming to win us, theyre coming to win us
Longer boats are coming to win us
Hold on to the shore, theyll be taking the key from the door.
I dont want no God on my lawn
Just a flower I can help along
cause the soul of no body knows
How a flower grows... oh how a flower grows.
Chorus
Mary dropped her pants by the sand
And let a parson come and take her hand
But the soul of no body knows
Where the parson goes, where does the parson go?
Chorus
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tinker Dick
Good Parson Dickson preached, I'm told,
A sermon-ah, 'twas very old
And very, very, bald!
'Twas all about-I know not what
It was about, nor what 'twas not.
'A Screw Loose' it was called.
Whatever, Parson Dick, you say,
The world will get each blessed day
Still more and more askew,
And fall apart at last. Great snakes!
What skillful tinker ever takes
His tongue to turn a screw?
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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There Is No God, the Wicked Sayeth
"There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing."
"There is no God," a youngster thinks,
"or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
Always to be a baby."
"There is no God, or if there is,"
The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
To make a little money."
"Whether there be," the rich man says,
"It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual."
Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;
Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt, in first confusion;
And almost everyone when age,
Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like Him.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sequel to the "One-Horse Shay"
Doubtless my readers all have heard
Of the "wonderful one-horse shay "
That "went to pieces all at once"
On the terrible earthquake-day.
But did they ever think of the horse,
Or mourn the loss of him,—
The "ewe-necked bay" (who drew the "shay"),
So full of life and vim?
He was a wonderful nag, I'm told,
In spite of his old "rat-tail";
And, though he always minded the rein,
He laughed at the snow and hail.
He had the finest stable in town,
With plenty of oats and hay;
And to the parson's oft "Hud-dup"
He never would answer neigh.
To the parson's shay he was ever true,
Though her other felloes were tired:
To live and die with his fiancée
Was all that his heart desired.
He was much attached to his ancient mate;
So the parson "hitched them together;"
And, when they went on their bridle tour,
His heart was light as a feather.
We all remember her awful fate,
On that sad November day,
When nothing remained but a heap of trash,
That once was a beautiful shay.
Oh! what could stir-up the equine breast
Like this fearful, harrowing blow.
Which put a check on his happiness,
And filled his heart with w(h)oa.
As he wheeled about, a shaft of pain
Entered his faithful breast,
As he there beheld the sad remains
Of her whom he loved the best.
With a sudden bound and fearful snort,
He sped away like the wind;
And a fact most queer I'll mention here, —
No traces were left behind.
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.
quote by William Cowper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The parson always christens his own child first.
When it pours upon the parson, it drops upon the clerk.
It is not the surplice that makes parson or clerk.
It's enough to make a parson swear, or a quaker kick his mother.
That Half-Crown Sweep
The run of Billabong-go-dry
Is just beyond Lime Burner's Gap;
Its waterhole and tank supply
Is excellent -- upon the map.
But lacking nature's liquid drench,
The station staff are wont to try
With "Bob-in Sweeps" their thirst to quench,
Or nearly quench, at Bong-go-dry.
The parson made five-yearly rounds
That soil of arid souls to delve,
He wrote, "I'll come for seven pounds,
Or I could stop away for twelve."
But lack of lucre brought about
The pusillanimous reply:
"Our luxuries are all cut out,
You'll have to go to Bong-go-dry."
Now rabbit skins were very high --
There'd been a kind of rabbit rush --
And what with traps and sticks they'd shy,
The station blacks were very flush,
And each was taught his churchman's job,
"When that one parson's plate comes roun'
No good you put in sprat or bob,
Too quick you put in harp-a-crown."
The parson's word was duly kept,
He came and did his bit of speak;
The boss remarked he hadn't slept
So sound and well for many a week.
But Gilgai Jack and Monkey Jaw
Regarded preaching as a crime
Against good taste; they said, "What for
That one chap yabber all the time?"
Proceedings ceased: the boss's hat
Was raked from underneath his chair;
The coloured congregation sat
And waited with expectant air.
At last from one far-distant seat
Where Gilgai's Mary'd been asleep,
There came a kind of plaintive bleat,
"Say, boss! Who won the harp-crown sweep?"
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Epilogue to The Husband His Own Cuckold
Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
Nor is the puny poet void of care;
For authors, such as our new authors are,
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare;
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,
But has as little as the very parson:
Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though you like the play,
The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day;
But with the parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace;
The poet has one disadvantage more,
That if his play be dull, he's damned all o'er,
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor.
But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoiled a priest's preferment;
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes,
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose,
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux.
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears,
At what his beauship says, but what he wears;
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears.
The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.
The truth on 't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our absent author hope,
He should equip the stage with such a fop.
Fools change in England, and new fools arise;
For, though the immortal species never dies,
Yet every year new maggots make new flies.
But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find
One fool, for million that he left behind.
poem by John Dryden
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The Way To Rule A Village
That Village is perfectly under command,
When the Justice and Rector will go hand in hand;
Their power o'er the peasant can ne'er be shut out,
When jointly these two toss the bottle about.
But when it shall happen the two disagree,
Ill-nature, retorts, and returns, you may see.
The Peasants alarm'd will begin to take sides;
The plague becomes pow'rful--the village divides.
Then take this advice--you no farther need seek,
Let the 'Squire and the Parson get drunk once a week;
When into their breast they've transported the barrel,
Let the Priest and the Magistrate then shun a quarrel.
A Rector of Pride, and a Justice of Peace,
(With sentiments high, they could ne'er coalesce)
Met point-blank together, one day, on the road,
Though the ground each detested the other had trod.
'So, Sir,' says the Justice, 'you ride a fine horse;
Won't follow your master, who rode something worse;
For he, though divine, on a jack-ass we view;
Methinks the same animal might have serv'd you.'
'I own,' says the Parson, 'your judgment is good,
Like our Saviour, I'd ride on an ass, if I cou'd;
But none I can purchase, so riding must cease,
Because every ass is a Justice of Peace.'
poem by William Hutton
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A Pastoral
Just as the sun was setting
Back of the Western hills
Grandfather stood by the window
Eating the last of his pills.
And Grandmother, by the cupboard,
Knitting, heard him say:
'I ought to have went to the village
To fetch some more pills today.'
Then Grandmother snuffled a teardrop
And said. 'It is jest like I suz
T’ th’ parson—Grandfather’s liver
Ain’t what it used to was:
'It’s gittin’ torpid and dormant,
It don’t function like of old,
And even them pills he swallers
Don’t seem no more t’ catch hold;
'They used to grab it and shake it
And joggle it up and down
And turn dear Grandfather yaller
Except when they turned him brown;
'I remember when we was married
His liver was lively and gay,
A kickin’ an’ rippin’ an’ givin’
Dear Ezry new pains ev’ry day;
'It used to turn clear over backwards
An’ palpitate wuss’n a pump
An’ give him the janders and yallers
An’ bounce around thumpty-thump;
'But now it is torpid and dormant
And painless and quiet and cold;
Ah, me! all’s so peaceful an’ quiet
Since Grandfather’s liver ’s grown old!
Then Grandmother wiped a new teardrop
And sighed: 'It is just like I suz
T’ th’ parson: Grandfather’s liver
Ain’t what it used to was.'
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Winter Wonderland
Sleigh bells ring, are you listening,
in the lane, snow is glistening
A beautiful sight,
We're happy tonight,
Walking in a winter wonderland.
Gone away is the bluebird,
In his place is a new bird
He sings a love song,
As we go along,
Walking in a winter wonderland.
In the meadow we can build a snowman
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown
He'll say: Are you married?
We'll say: No man,
But you can do the job
When you're in town.
Later on, we'll conspire,
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid,
The plans that we've made,
Walking in a winter wonderland.
In the meadow we can build a snowman,
And pretend that he's Parson Brown
He'll say: Are you married?
We'll say: No man,
But you can do the job
When you're in town.
And later on, we'll conspire,
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid,
The plans that we've made,
Walking in a winter wonderland.
Walking in a winter wonderland,
walking in a winter wonderland.
song performed by by Ashanti
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Village Don Juan
Lord, I'm grey, my face is run,
But by old Harry, I've had my fun;
And all about, I seem to see
Lads and lassies that look like me;
Ice-blue eyes on every hand,
Handsomest youngsters in the land.
"Old Stud Horse" they say of me,
But back of my beard I laugh with glee.
Far and wide have I sown my seed,
Yet by the gods I've improved the breed:
From byre and stable to joiner's bench,
From landlord's daughter to serving wench.
Ice-blue eyes and blade-straight nose,
Stamp of my virile youth are those;
Now you'll see them on every side,
Proof of my powers, far and wide:
Even the parson' handsome scamp,
And the Doctor's daughter have my stamp.
Many a matron cocks an eye
Of secret knowledge as I pass by;
As for the hubbies, what they don't know
Will never hurt them, so let them go:
The offspring most they seem to prize
Have blade-straight noses and ice-blue byes.
Yet oh, I have a haunting dread
Brother and sister lust the bed;
The Parson's and the Doctor's lass,
Yestreen in the moon I saw them pass;
The thought of them wed is like a knife. . . .
Brother and sister - man and wife.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Winter Wonderland
Sleigh bells ring, are you listenin',
In the lane, snow is glistenin'
A beautiful sight,
We're happy tonight,
Walking in a winter wonderland.
Gone away is the bluebird,
Here to stay is a new bird
He sings a love song,
As we go along,
Walkin' in a winter wonderland.
In the meadow we can build a snowman,
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown
He'll say: Are you married?
We'll say: No man,
But you can do the job
While you're in town.
Later on, we'll conspire,
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid,
The plans that we've made,
Walkin' in a winter wonderland.
--- Instrumental ---
In the meadow we can build a snowman,
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown
He'll say: Are you married?
We'll say: No man,
But you can do the job
While you're in town.
Later on, we'll conspire,
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid,
The plans that we've made,
Walkin' in a winter wonderland.
To face unafraid,
The plans that we've made,
Walkin' in a winter wonderland...
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Winter Wonderland
(Felix Bernard/Dick Smith)
Chorus:
Sleigh bells ring, are you listenin
In the lane, snow is glistenin
A beautiful sight, were happy tonight
Walkin in a winter wonderland
Gone away is the bluebird
Here to stay is a new bird
He sings a love song, as we go along
Walkin in a winter wonderland
In the meadow we can build a snowman
And pretend that he is Parson Brown
Hell say, "Are you married?"
Well say, "No, man"
But you can do the job while youre in town
Later on well conspire
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid the plans that we made
Walkin in a winter wonderland
--- Instrumental ---
In the meadow we can build a snowman
And pretend that he is Parson Brown
Hell say, "Are you married?"
Well say, "No, man"
But you can do the job while youre in town
Later on well conspire
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid the plans that we made
Walkin in a winter wonderland
Walkin in a winter wonderland
Walkin in a winter wonderland...
song performed by by Travis Tritt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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