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The Three Bells
Original french words by bert reisfeld and music by jean villard
English words added by dick manning
Theres a village hidden deep in the valley
Among the pine trees half forlorn
And there on a sunny morning
Little jimmy brown was born
(bung, bung, bung, bung)
All the chapel bells were ringing in the little valley town
And the song that they were singing was for baby jimmy brown
Then the little congregation prayed for guidance from above
Lead us not into temptation, bless this hour of meditation
Guide him with eternal love
Theres a village hidden deep in the valley
Beneath the mountains high above
And there, twenty years thereafter
Jimmy was to meet his love
(bung, bung, bung, bung)
All the chapel bells were ringing, twas a great day in his life
cause the songs that they were singing was for jimmy and his wife
Then the little congregation prayed for guidance from above
Lead us not into temptation, bless, oh lord this celebration
May their lives be filled with love
>from the village hidden deep in the valley
One rainy morning dark and gray
A soul winged its way to heaven
Jimmy brown had passed away
(bung, bung, bung, bung)
Just a lonely bell was ringing in the little valley town
twas farewell that it was singing to our little jimmy brown
And the little congregation prayed for guidance from above
Lead us not into temptation, may his soul find the salvation
Of thy great eternal love
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Telly's Gone Bung
My telly's gone bung
What am I to do about the ABC
My telly's gone bung
What am I to do about my predicament
My telly's gone bung
I plugged it it in and it turned me off again
I've waited up for you
To come alive and bring some truth back to me yeah
Cos I'm where I wanna be in front of my TV
My telly's gone bung
What am I to do about Kylie & Jason now
My telly's gone bung
I don't really care for their predicament
I've waited up for you
To come alive and bring some truth back to me yeah
Cos I'm where I wanna be in front of my TV
If it was up to me
I'd let these people see
What people do
I've been watching you too
I've waited up for you
To come alive and bring some truth back to me yeah
Cos I'm where I wanna be in front of my TV
If it was up to me
I would let these lovely people see
If it was up to me
If it was up to me
If it was up to me
If it was up to me
If it was up to me
song performed by by Crowded House
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spare at the spigot, and let it out at the bung-hole.
Shoals
On shore I like to sit
Entranced by the evergreen algae
That someday became erect
And gained self-awareness;
The time it took stretched to the bottom of the sea.
The time on the order of billions,
When even the sun will give out.
Alas.
But I must,
Because of the hour today,
Hurry within,
For I hunger for shrimp,
Smelling it's nearly done,
Smelling it's my turn.
poem by Stan Petrovich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bill 'Awkins
"'As anybody seen Bill 'Awkins?"
"Now 'ow in the devil would I know?"
"'E's taken my girl out walkin',
An' I've got to tell 'im so --
Gawd -- bless -- 'im!
I've got to tell 'im so."
"D'yer know what 'e's like, Bill 'Awkins?"
"Now what in the devil would I care?"
"'E's the livin', breathin' image of an organ-grinder's monkey,
With a pound of grease in 'is 'air --
Gawd -- bless -- 'im!
An' a pound o' grease in 'is 'air."
"An' s'pose you met Bill 'Awkins,
Now what in the devil 'ud ye do?"
"I'd open 'is cheek to 'is chin-strap buckle,
An' bung up 'is both eyes, too --
Gawd -- bless -- 'im!
An' bung up 'is both eyes, too!"
"Look 'ere, where 'e comes, Bill 'Awkins!
Now what in the devil will you say?"
"It isn't fit an' proper to be fightin' on a Sunday,
So I'll pass 'im the time o' day --
Gawd -- bless -- 'im!
I'll pass 'im the time o' day!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Wrighty Bites It Over Blighty.
Day had just begun, tea and sticky bun.
Glum news brung, from mum.
‘Wrighty''Dog Fight', didn't return from.
The Hun had again'stung', oh'that Hun,
He's not dumb, a web he'd spun.
That cunning Hun, unfair he'd become.
Using the sun, blind our chaps then stun.
Firing upon our sons with his Saxon cannon.
'Reminisce'in the'mess'thoughts come,
Us and them, our 'Spit' bloody awesome,
Their 'Messerschmitt'in comparison, rather cumbersome.
It's no fun, makes one sick in the tum,
When one is one the run from the Hun.
Tell you son, coming from the Sun,
Yes trying to shun the scum Hun.
Before one gets undone,
Trying to shoot one in one's bum,
With his big gun.
Bang, one gets one in the rear, bung bung!
End has begun, coming undone.
Tail spun, engine, ‘strange hum',
‘Out to dry', up and strung.
Body numb, dry tongue,
Clenched gum, chest'tight as a drum'.
Dropping like a‘rock bun', and then sum.!
Yes, last song sung, last string strum.
Last cord strung, last note a bum.
That Bavarian bugger had won!
Heading for the'drink' head-on,
'Damn it, where's the Rum'!
Finally succumb, finally done.
Yes'Wrighty'old chum, they got you son.
For you the fight, will carry on.
For you son, I'll take the baton.
By golly, by jove, by gum.
Lip-More will fight for freedom,
Toast your life old boy with a dropp of Rum.
19/06/09
poem by Guy Lipmore
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Philippine Junket
Just as the clock starts to tick
There sprung the tongues of fire
When these honorable men play their mutual smack
One will see their infinite capacity to lie
Through their gums like soothing mark
For nobody cares
Everyone loves to smell the roses
And we end up smelling the gutter instead!
Their speeches are so hilarious
Quite apart from poignant
They seem to feel their colleague’s loss as their loss
To us an expostulation of wonderment
Weeping and gnashing their teeth to protect their boss
For nobody cares
Everyone loves to smell the roses
And we end up smelling the gutter instead!
Forget the just and the wicked
For that is like squeezing blood from stones
They all wrought turbulence hard and morbid
When they speak, they sound like storms
Relatively an equanimity they stood as united
For nobody cares
Everyone loves to smell the roses
And we end up smelling the gutter instead!
poem by Edgar Rendon Eslit
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She Will Speak About Some Men
almost bald, some hair have consistently fallen
bigger tummies
bloated to some earthly experience
the men of her life
smelling beer
and saline sweat
but always she will remember them
always feeling sexy
the dark room
the musk perfume
the warm blankets
some pillow cases
smelling pungent still
inside her lonely mind
her heart has stopped bleeding
the men of her life
oh! they were sexy too
tall and strong and naked
always penetrating
her emptiness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Iva
Arm yourself for war!
For the end is at hand;
And, how shall i make a mends to you?
For the end is at hand.
One belt is for a warrior like Absalom's Statue,
But Yahweh is worthy to be praised;
Iva, life is like a gigantic man with six fingers on each hand;
But you are not to be intoxicated with wine!
Iva, life is like a gigantic man with six toes on each foot;
And merciful and compassionate like,
The god (el) of gold in this war!
But you have the sweet-smelling cinnamon around you,
So arm yourself for war! !
Iva, you have the sweet-smelling cane around you too;
And the end is at hand for all of us but,
Those who sin always are unconfortable with righteousness.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Elias' Room
Come into Elias' room,
Of a sweet smelling aroma;
With things well arranged to keep you at bay.
It is just like the wedding of two cultures,
It is just like the love of two birds,
It is just like real faces of two lovers,
It is just like the talented youth with two dreams,
It is just like Slaha and Makola markets with two phases,
So come into Elias' room!
There you will see the Lebanese beauty.
Come into Elias' room,
Of a sweet smelling aroma;
But the Lebanese beauty will keep you at bay.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Gamalakhe
Mouths smelling of alcohol
Ja, westernization has taken it’s toll
Brothers with dashed dreams on the corner
Sometimes you just can’t take it any longer
You say “The ghetto made me violent, the ghetto made me a tyrant”
I say your biggest demons are the lust for getting a quick fix and being ignorant
Benzene, glue and tick decrease your IQ below average
Your anger and rage is making you act like a savage
Brother, you’re a statistic,
The butt of a joke for the stereotypic
I know poverty is a killer
Brother, I hope the hardship doesn’t kill ya
But I saw you wasted, smelling of booze, wearing designer clothes that looked so old
Thinking, the night has never been so cold
poem by Mthoko Mpofana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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O' Poverty
O' poverty, thou art but smelling
And thy pollution dangerous to life
And the living wailing and crying
Wishing you never existed in the world
As they have no healthy gas for survival
Thou maketh men wander about
For gas, for repast, and for shelter
With no sweet repose in their eyes
With bare footed in the streets
And with no apparels for their mortals
Unprotected they're in the perilous night
And in the light very little hope of survival
Their society looks upon them scornfully
And took you from them the zeal to inhale further
O' poverty, thou art but smelling
For thou hath poisoned many a mortal
And may ruin bedeck thy number of days
As thou art cruel and fiend O' poverty.
poem by Lightcheerful Briggs
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One Anguish—in a Crowd
565
One Anguish—in a Crowd—
A Minor thing—it sounds—
And yet, unto the single Doe
Attempted of the Hounds
'Tis Terror as consummate
As Legions of Alarm
Did leap, full flanked, upon the Host—
'Tis Units—make the Swarm—
A Small Leech—on the Vitals—
The sliver, in the Lung—
The Bung out—of an Artery—
Are scarce accounted—Harms—
Yet might—by relation
To that Repealless thing—
A Being—impotent to end—
When once it has begun—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Smacked And Slapped Against The Wall
Smacked and slapped against the wall,
Is not magnifique.
Although some may just enjoy...
This touch of quick awakening.
Smacked with a slap against the wall,
May help some snap senses back.
But not for all...
Who may be appalled,
By such treatment.
Smacked and slapped against the wall...
ooo
Some may need it!
Smacked with a slap against the wall...
ooo
Without the need,
For smelling salts.
Is cost effective!
Smacked with a slap against the wall...
ooo
Is cost effective!
Smacked and slapped against the wall...
ooo
Without the need,
For smelling salts.
Awakens!
And...
Relieves.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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What It Means to Compromise
Smoking cigars, drinking
Scotch, setting outside
Candle light night
Writing poetry – seems
Romantic to me, but NOT
My health crazed
Californian lover who
Lays awake these nights
Worrying that I will die
Young – from lung cancer
The only man that has ever
Given multiple orgasms
Like tender gift wrapped
Presents.
She pretends to be
Asleep, when I enter
Smelling of tobacco
And scotch, she pretends
I wake her as I
Spoon next smelling
Her showered cleanness -
Ivory and strawberries
She says, “MMMMMMMM
Hello dear..mmmmmmm….Did
You write something beautiful? ”
I reply, ” Nothing as beautiful as you.”
Letting my hand slip slide across her
Hip curve, where there
Should be fur, but NOT
Just silk then folds
This seems romantic
To her and thus
We share, settle
And compromise.
poem by Byron Headrick
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Sensuality
FEELING hunger and cold, feeling
Food, feeling fire, feeling
Pity and pain, tasting
Time in a kiss, tasting
Anger and tears, touching
Eyelids with lips, touching
Plague, touching flesh, knowing
Blood in the mouth, knowing
Laughter like flame, holding
Pickaxe and pen, holding
Death in the hand, hearing
Boilers and bells, hearing
Birds, hearing hail, smelling
Cedar and sweat, smelling
Petrol and sea, feeling
Hunger and cold, feeling
Food, feeling fire. . . .
Feeling.
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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If I splurge on anything, it's cologne. I love smelling good.