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Whoever exchanges some lard for some other lard, one or the other must be rancid.
The Good Lord Is Irish
Twas in a wee little kirk
Nestled deep in the heather
Where leprechauns lurk
mid fog and brash weather
Where wee Father Flanagan stood
Attired in black coat and white collar
Aponderin’ evil and good
E’ twas Five foot two and na’ taller
Aponderin’ the warld’
and to how it might end
And how things might unfarl
When tis gone round the bend
“Oh dear Lard, how twillit be when we go?
Twill all be gone, or will yet some linger? ”
To which the Lard replied in voice soft and low
“suure and I’ll show ye my son, just pull my finger.
poem by David Whalen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Little Tim's Revenge
"Little Tim " was the name of him
Of whom I have to tell;
And he abode on the Western road,
In the busy town of L--.
As trains went down through the little town,
He peddled through the cars
His stock in trade, — iced lemonade,
Cake, peanuts, and cigars.
Conductor Dunn was the only one
Who'd not this trade allow;
And so 'twixt him and little Tim
There always was a row.
At last one day they had a fray;
And Timothy declared
He'd "fix old Dunn, 'as sure's a gun,'"
If both their lives were spared.
So off he went with this intent,
And sold his stock in trade:
His earnings hard he spent for lard,
And started for "the grade."
(This place, you know, is where trains go
Upon the steep hillside,
And where — with lard — it isn't hard
To get up quite a slide.)
He took a stick, and spread it thick,
Remarking with a smile,
"There'll be some fun when Mr. Dunn
Commences to 'strike ile'!"
He lay in wait: the train was late,
And came a-puffing hard,
With heavy load, right up the road
To where he'd spread the lard.
They tried in vain: that fated train
Could not ascend the grade:
The wheels would spin with horrid din
Yet no advance was made.
Then little Tim — 'twas bold in him —
Cried out in accents shrill,
"Remember me, Conductor D.,
When you get up the hill!"
MORAL.
Success in trade is up a grade
That we should all ascend,
And with a will help up the hill
Our fellow-man and friend.
When "on the road," don't incommode
The seeker after pelf,
Or ten to one, like Mr. Dunn,
You'll not get up yourself.
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When it's time to fry the beans, you can't do without lard.
They lard their lean books with the fat of others work.
quote by Richard Burton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We never had a bathtub. Mom would bathe me in the wooden or tin washtub in the kitchen, or in a big lard can.
quote by Ethel Waters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pride grows in the human heart like lard on a pig.
Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn in The Gulag Archipelago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I can still memory - taste the fresh buttermilk pancakes and hot buttermilk biscuits - both made with lard! - that were cooked on the top, or in the oven, of that ancient iron stove.
quote by Vernon L. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To cause the face to appear in a mass of flame make use of the following: mix together thoroughly petroleum, lard, mutton tallow and quick lime. Distill this over a charcoal fire, and the liquid which results can be burned on the face without harm.
quote by Harry Houdini
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the King’s Company
Your hopes may never fry and die,
But those that do shall write,
For dreams can sink and rectify,
All sudden happy sight.
May losing be the highest right,
For those who must come down,
As losers have a guest tonight,
He is a king with crown.
The happy over that mistake
Shall wind up in the yard,
The king does eat a nice beefsteak,
With much delicious lard.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Prepared
dried beans, salt pork,
flour, lard, coffee,
and whiskey...
matches, sharp knife,
a coat, boots, dried dog food.
candles and books...
pull the blanket close,
hold those that you love.
storm clouds, hard lightning,
eyes squinted, lips tight!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Blues Come Around
Once I was happy as I could be but I let a gal make a fool of me
And ever since she let me down the blues come around when the sun comes down
Oh the blues come around oh the blues come around
Lard the blues come around every evenin' when the sun goes down
[ guitar ]
As the sun is in the sky those doggone blues never make me cry
But ever since she left this town the blues come around when the sun goes down
Oh the blues come around...
[ fiddle ]
I've built my castle very high and then she went and said goodbye
Ever since she poured 'em down the blues come around when the sun goes down
Oh the blues come around...
[ steel ]
Once she called me all her own but now she's gone and I'm alone
And every evenin' I'm sorrow bound
Cause the blues come around when the sun goes down
Oh the blues come around...
[ guitar ]
Oh the blues come around...
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Santa Intervention
Take note regarding Santa’s girth
Weighs 50 times his weight at birth
We must step in, for all it’s worth
Before he’s buried neath the earth
Make haste, call Ms Jenny Craig
Weight Watchers’ & Gold’s Gym
I’m not trying to pull your leg, as
It’s top priority to get Santa slim
Break out the jump rope ‘n weights
Get old Saint Nick to running hard
Work him until he almost faints
Gotta rid himself of all that lard
Our big reward is Mrs. Claus’s smile
As she’ll have Santa for a longer while
poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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His Content In The Country
HERE, Here I live with what my board
Can with the smallest cost afford;
Though ne'er so mean the viands be,
They well content my Prue and me:
Or pea or bean, or wort or beet,
Whatever comes, Content makes sweet.
Here we rejoice, because no rent
We pay for our poor tenement;
Wherein we rest, and never fear
The landlord or the usurer.
The quarter-day does ne'er affright
Our peaceful slumbers in the night:
We eat our own, and batten more,
Because we feed on no man's score;
But pity those whose flanks grow great,
Swell'd with the lard of other's meat.
We bless our fortunes, when we see
Our own beloved privacy;
And like our living, where we're known
To very few, or else to none.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Troy [slow, methodical]: Woman... I do the best I can do. I come home every Friday. I carry a sack of potatoes and a bucket of lard. You all line up at the door with your hands out. I give you the lint from my pockets. I give you my sweat and blood. I ain't got no tears. I done spent them. I get up on Monday morning... find my lunch on the table. I go out. Make my way. Find my strength to carry me through to the next Friday. [Pause] That's all I've got Rose. That's all I've got to give. I can't give nothing else.
line from Fences, Act I, Scene 3 by August Wilson (1983)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Dove
Within his office, smiling.
Sat JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN,
But all the screws of Birmingham
Were working in his brain.
The heart within his bosom
Was as a millstone hard;
His eye was cold and cruel,
His face was frozen lard.
He had the map of Africa
Upon his table spread:
He took a brush, and with the same
He painted it blood-red.
He heard no moan of widows,
But only the hurrah
Of charging lines and squadrons
And 'Rule Britannia.'
A white dove to his window
With branch of olive sped -
He took a ruler in his hand,
And struck the white dove dead.
poem by Victor James Daley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dove
Within his office, smiling.
Sat JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN,
But all the screws of Birmingham
Were working in his brain.
The heart within his bosom
Was as a millstone hard;
His eye was cold and cruel,
His face was frozen lard.
He had the map of Africa
Upon his table spread:
He took a brush, and with the same
He painted it blood-red.
He heard no moan of widows,
But only the hurrah
Of charging lines and squadrons
And 'Rule Britannia.'
A white dove to his window
With branch of olive sped -
He took a ruler in his hand,
And struck the white dove dead.
poem by Victor James Daley
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The Morning Baking
Grandma, come back, I forgot
How much lard for these rolls
Think you can put yourself in the ground
Like plain potatoes and grow in Ohio?
I am damn sick of getting fat like you
Think you can lie through your Slovak?
Tell filthy stories about the blood sausage?
Pish-pish nights at the virgin in Detroit?
I blame your raising me up for my Slav tongue
You beat me up out back, taught me to dance
I'll tell you I don't remember any kind of bread
Your wavy loaves of flesh
Stink through my sleep
The stars on your silk robes
But I'm glad I'll look when I'm old
Like a gypsy dusha hauling milk
poem by Carolyn Forché
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Lightgreen
Wolstencroft they called the guard,
big he was, a tub of lard.
Stood before the Pearly Gate
guarding heavenly estate.
Came St. Peter, checked ID,
said it simply cannot be
that a man who is not white
could come in, it was not right.
God was asked about his view,
he replied 'The sky is blue,
it is not your bloomin' race
or your black and ugly face.
It's the name, you could be green,
brownish like a Pinto Bean,
you would see that at this gate
we do not discriminate.'
Adds St. Peter 'We ain't mean,
but if someone who looks green
wants to gain up here admission
it's a simpleton's decision.
Green, the colour, comes in shades,
dark would be the Everglades,
no one here adores the night,
we prefer the green be light.'
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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London Types:
Time, the old humourist, has a trick to-day
Of moving landmarks and of levelling down,
Till into Town the Suburbs edge their way,
And in the Suburbs you may scent the Town.
With Mount Street thus approaching Muswell Hill,
And Clapham Common marching with the Mile,
You get a Hammersmith that fills the bill,
A Hampstead with a serious sense of style.
So this fair creature, pictured in The Row,
As one of that 'gay adulterous world,' whose round
Is by the Serpentine, as well would show,
And might, I deem, as readily be found
On Streatham's Hill, or Wimbledon's, or where
Brixtonian kitchens lard the late-dining air.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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