I think a bishop who doesn't give offence to anyone is probably not a good bishop.
quote by James Thomson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Closing Arguments
In closing, ladies and gentlemen of the jury
I'm not gonna sit here and bore you with a long, drawn out story
Or excuse, of why i think wyclef is guilty
I'm gonna stand by the exhibits as well as the tapes
And songs such as jeapordy, til novemeber, all the girls,
And bubblegoose, which stand side by side with my allegations
I rest my case
Ok, uhh, ladiessss, and gentle-men, of the juwy
As you can see nuttin has been proven here today
Deez witnesses dey brought ere don't not have evidence
To incriminate my client eh?
If he's not guilty he's innocent
If he's not detrimental to the society therefore he positive!
As i say before, dis case is pure bishop
Your honor see, this, this is exactly what i'm talkin about
I mean i've been meaning to ask this the whole time
Who the hell is bishop?
Eh?
And and why the hell hasn't he been brought on the stand?
Bishop, bishop, not true, false, bishop
Ohh, bullshit!
Oui
song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Closing Arguments (Interlude/Skit)
In closing, ladies and gentlemen of the jury
I'm not gonna sit here and bore you with a long, drawn out story
or excuse, of why I think Wyclef is guilty
I'm gonna stand by the exhibits as well as the tapes
And songs such as Jeapordy, Til Novemeber, All the Girls,
and Bubblegoose, which stand side by side with my allegations
I rest my case
OK, uhh, ladiessss, and gentle-men, of the juwy
As you can see nuttin has been proven here today
DEEZ witnesses dey brought ere don't not have evidence
to incriminate my client eh?
If he's not guilty he's innocent
If he's not detrimental to the society therefore he positive!
As I say before, dis case is pure bishop
Your honor see, this, this is exactly what I'm talkin about
I mean I've been meaning to ask this the whole time
Who the hell is Bishop?
Eh?
And and why the hell hasn't he been brought on the stand?
Bishop, bishop, not true, false, bishop
Ohh, bullshit!
Oui
song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bishop's Robes
Dressed in Bishop's robes
Terrifies me still
In Bishop's robes
Bastard headmaster
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
Children taught to kill
To tear themselves to bits
On playing fields
Dressed in Bishop's robes
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sandpiper (Cavatina)
(after Elizabeth Bishop)
The leaping spray that roar, the swishing fling
of surf and sand,
plays in and out as waves rush to and thro;
where it does stand
while searching for something on tiny legs;
it understands
the roaring toss, a world of surf and foam,
while rushing on the wet beach it does roam.
[Reference: 'Sandpiper' by Elizabeth Bishop.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Bishop of Rum-Ti-Foo
From east and south the holy clan
Of Bishops gathered to a man;
To Synod, called Pan-Anglican,
In flocking crowds they came.
Among them was a Bishop, who
Had lately been appointed to
The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,
And PETER was his name.
His people - twenty-three in sum -
They played the eloquent tum-tum,
And lived on scalps served up, in rum -
The only sauce they knew.
When first good BISHOP PETER came
(For PETER was that Bishop's name),
To humour them, he did the same
As they of Rum-ti-Foo.
His flock, I've often heard him tell,
(His name was PETER) loved him well,
And, summoned by the sound of bell,
In crowds together came.
"Oh, massa, why you go away?
Oh, MASSA PETER, please to stay."
(They called him PETER, people say,
Because it was his name.)
He told them all good boys to be,
And sailed away across the sea,
At London Bridge that Bishop he
Arrived one Tuesday night;
And as that night he homeward strode
To his Pan-Anglican abode,
He passed along the Borough Road,
And saw a gruesome sight.
He saw a crowd assembled round
A person dancing on the ground,
Who straight began to leap and bound
With all his might and main.
To see that dancing man he stopped,
Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped,
Then down incontinently dropped,
And then sprang up again.
The Bishop chuckled at the sight.
"This style of dancing would delight
A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite.
I'll learn it if I can,
To please the tribe when I get back."
He begged the man to teach his knack.
"Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack!
Replied that dancing man.
The dancing man he worked away,
And taught the Bishop every day -
The dancer skipped like any fay -
Good PETER did the same.
The Bishop buckled to his task,
With BATTEMENTS, and PAS DE BASQUE.
(I'll tell you, if you care to ask,
That PETER was his name.)
"Come, walk like this," the dancer said,
"Stick out your toes - stick in your head,
Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread -
Your fingers thus extend;
The attitude's considered quaint."
The weary Bishop, feeling faint,
Replied, "I do not say it ain't,
But 'Time!' my Christian friend!"
"We now proceed to something new -
Dance as the PAYNES and LAURIS do,
Like this - one, two - one, two - one, two."
The Bishop, never proud,
But in an overwhelming heat
(His name was PETER, I repeat)
Performed the PAYNE and LAURI feat,
And puffed his thanks aloud.
Another game the dancer planned -
"Just take your ankle in your hand,
And try, my lord, if you can stand -
Your body stiff and stark.
If, when revisiting your see,
You learnt to hop on shore - like me -
The novelty would striking be,
And must attract remark."
"No," said the worthy Bishop, "no;
That is a length to which, I trow,
Colonial Bishops cannot go.
You may express surprise
At finding Bishops deal in pride -
But if that trick I ever tried,
I should appear undignified
In Rum-ti-Foozle's eyes.
"The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo
Are well-conducted persons, who
Approve a joke as much as you,
And laugh at it as such;
But if they saw their Bishop land,
His leg supported in his hand,
The joke they wouldn't understand -
'T would pain them very much!"
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf X. -- Raud The Strong
'All the old gods are dead,
All the wild warlocks fled;
But the White Christ lives and reigns,
And throughout my wide domains
His Gospel shall be spread!'
On the Evangelists
Thus swore King Olaf.
But still in dreams of the night
Beheld he the crimson light,
And heard the voice that defied
Him who was crucified,
And challenged him to the fight.
To Sigurd the Bishop
King Olaf confessed it.
And Sigurd the Bishop said,
'The old gods are not dead,
For the great Thor still reigns,
And among the Jarls and Thanes
The old witchcraft still is spread.'
Thus to King Olaf
Said Sigurd the Bishop.
'Far north in the Salten Fiord,
By rapine, fire, and sword,
Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong;
All the Godoe Isles belong
To him and his heathen horde.'
Thus went on speaking
Sigurd the Bishop.
'A warlock, a wizard is he,
And lord of the wind and the sea;
And whichever way he sails,
He has ever favoring gales,
By his craft in sorcery.'
Here the sign of the cross
Made devoutly King Olaf.
'With rites that we both abhor,
He worships Odin and Thor;
So it cannot yet be said,
That all the old gods are dead,
And the warlocks are no more,'
Flushing with anger
Said Sigurd the Bishop.
Then King Olaf cried aloud:
'I will talk with this mighty Raud,
And along the Salten Fiord
Preach the Gospel with my sword,
Or be brought back in my shroud!'
So northward from Drontheim
Sailed King Olaf!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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A good writer is not necessarily a good book critic. No more so than a good drunk is automatically a good bartender.
quote by Jim Bishop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A good writer is not, per se, a good book critic. No more so than a good drunk is automatically a good bartender.
quote by Jim Bishop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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They
The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back
'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
'In a just cause: they lead the last attack
'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
'New right to breed an honourable race,
'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'
'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.
'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.
' And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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The Bishop and the Busman
It was a Bishop bold,
And London was his see,
He was short and stout and round about
And zealous as could be.
It also was a Jew,
Who drove a Putney 'bus -
For flesh of swine however fine
He did not care a cuss.
His name was HASH BAZ BEN,
And JEDEDIAH too,
And SOLOMON and ZABULON -
This 'bus-directing Jew.
The Bishop said, said he,
"I'll see what I can do
To Christianise and make you wise,
You poor benighted Jew."
So every blessed day
That 'bus he rode outside,
From Fulham town, both up and down,
And loudly thus he cried:
"His name is HASH BAZ BEN,
And JEDEDIAH too,
And SOLOMON and ZABULON -
This 'bus-directing Jew."
At first the 'busman smiled,
And rather liked the fun -
He merely smiled, that Hebrew child,
And said, "Eccentric one!"
And gay young dogs would wait
To see the 'bus go by
(These gay young dogs, in striking togs),
To hear the Bishop cry:
"Observe his grisly beard,
His race it clearly shows,
He sticks no fork in ham or pork -
Observe, my friends, his nose.
"His name is HASH BAZ BEN,
And JEDEDIAH too,
And SOLOMON and ZABULON -
This 'bus-directing Jew."
But though at first amused,
Yet after seven years,
This Hebrew child got rather riled,
And melted into tears.
He really almost feared
To leave his poor abode,
His nose, and name, and beard became
A byword on that road.
At length he swore an oath,
The reason he would know -
"I'll call and see why ever he
Does persecute me so!"
The good old Bishop sat
On his ancestral chair,
The 'busman came, sent up his name,
And laid his grievance bare.
"Benighted Jew," he said
(The good old Bishop did),
"Be Christian, you, instead of Jew -
Become a Christian kid!
"I'll ne'er annoy you more."
"Indeed?" replied the Jew;
"Shall I be freed?" "You will, indeed!"
Then "Done!" said he, "with you!"
The organ which, in man,
Between the eyebrows grows,
Fell from his face, and in its place
He found a Christian nose.
His tangled Hebrew beard,
Which to his waist came down,
Was now a pair of whiskers fair -
His name ADOLPHUS BROWN!
He wedded in a year
That prelate's daughter JANE,
He's grown quite fair - has auburn hair -
His wife is far from plain.
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Golden bishop, wooden crosier; wooden bishop, golden crosier.
Authentic Christianity never destroys what is good. It makes it grow, transfigures it, and enriches itself from it.
quote by Claire Huchet Bishop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nha Trang, Viet Nam Catholic Bishop’s Family
I do not love you with any of my heart
I see you & your family are part of the devil’s cart
Bishop Pierre I trusted & believed he taught you all
Honestly, Truth, God & not lying, stealing and abusing a human that causes him/her to fall
In time I learned when Bishop Pierre died the devil took 100% control
You and your family stole my money, my life, my love, my heart and my soul
Medically disabled does not matter to Nguyen Thi Dieu Tran, Pham Chi Tai, your family is true
Both of you and Nguyen Elizabeth & others in your family know it is wrong to do
Losing my life would have been easier with Ho Chi Minh
Now I identify the Catholic Bishop Pierre’s family in the USA and Viet Nam as VC who find it easy to sin
Live & die in peace is hard to find
Due to medical and financial pain caused by the Bishop’s family members who have the Devil’s mind
The stress from the expenses to take care of the house, the car and my life causes my heart to cry
Due Tai Chi Pham the Trustee of my Irrevocable Trust Fund illegally caused it be dry
With the Catholic Vietnamese family I learned what you can feel and see
Even with Bishop Pierre Nguyen Van Nho in the family can still act like the VC
I ask all of you who read this poem to give your response about this zone
It would help me understand if I am all alone
You can see a public copy of the signed and stamped TEMPORARY ORDER OF PROHIBITION against Tai Chi Pham by the State of Illinois Secretary of State Securities Department in July 2009 at: http: //www.cyberdriveillinois.com/departments/securiti es/administrative_actions/2009/july/taipham_top.p df
And you can see a public copy of the signed and stamped FINAL ORDER OF PROHIBITION against Mr. Tai Chi Pham at the State of Illinois Secretary of State Securities Department Internet Site August 2009 at:
http: //www.cyberdriveillinois.com/departments/securiti es/administrative_actions/2009/august/taipham_op. pdf
poem by Michael Appleman
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Shaky Are the Checkers
Shaky are the checkers,
Opponents...
In a game of chess!
How can a rook,
Be mistaken for a bishop?
A strategy 'appearing' to be weak...
As the knight leaps,
To retrieve the pawn.
And put the queen in check!
Yet,
The king of the game...
Has not fallen to sleep.
His eyes are wide open...
Knowing wherever he goes,
Not protecting the queen's steps...
Would certainly meet with defeat!
'Checkmate!
That's game.
While you were looking at my bishop...
You placed your queen in my rook's lane! '
~That's 'not' a checkmate!
You just outplayed me,
By using a strategy that was lame.~
'But 'who' won?
That's all that was needed to be done.
You ready for another lesson?
This time I'll use an easier plan,
That wont leave you humiliated or keep you guessing.
Set 'em up! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fidele's Grassy Tomb
The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,
His eyes were alive and clear of care,
But well he knew that the hour was come
To bid good-bye to his ancient home.
He looked on garden, wood, and hill,
He looked on the lake, sunny and still:
The last of earth that his eyes could see
Was the island church of Orchardleigh.
The last that his heart could understand
Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand:
'Bury the dog at my feet,' he said,
And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.
Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed,
Staunch to love and strong at need:
He had dragged his master safe to shore
When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.
From that day forth, as reason would,
He was named 'Fidele,' and made it good:
When the last of the mourners left the door
Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.
They buried him there at his master's feet,
And all that heard of it deemed it meet:
The story went the round for years,
Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.
Bishop of Bath and Wells was he,
Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh;
And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed
That Bishop may write or Parson read.
The sum of it was that a soulless hound
Was known to be buried in hallowed ground:
From scandal sore the Church to save
They must take the dog from his masters grave.
The heir was far in a foreign land,
The Parson was wax to my Lord's command:
He sent for the Sexton and bade him make
A lonely grave by the shore of the lake.
The Sexton sat by the water's brink
Where he used to sit when he used to think:
He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out,
And his argument left him free from doubt.
'A Bishop,' he said, 'is the top of his trade:
But there's others can give him a start with the spade:
Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore,
And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more.
The grave was dug; the mason came
And carved on stone Fidele's name;
But the dog that the Sexton laid inside
Was a dog that never had lived or died.
So the Parson was praised,and the scandal stayed,
Till, a long time after, the church decayed,
And, laying the floor anew, they found
In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.
As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells
No more of him the story tells;
Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince,
And died and was buried a century since.
And whether his view was right or wrong
Has little to do with this my song;
Something we owe him, you must allow;
And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.
The Squire in the family chantry sleeps,
The marble still his memory keeps:
Remember, when the name you spell,
There rest Fidele's bones as well.
For the Sexton's grave you need not search,
'Tis a nameless mound by the island church:
An ignorant fellow, of humble lot---
But. he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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The Bishop of Rum-Ti-Foo Again
I often wonder whether you
Think sometimes of that Bishop, who
From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo
Last summer twelvemonth came.
Unto your mind I p'r'aps may bring
Remembrance of the man I sing
To-day, by simply mentioning
That PETER was his name.
Remember how that holy man
Came with the great Colonial clan
To Synod, called Pan-Anglican;
And kindly recollect
How, having crossed the ocean wide,
To please his flock all means he tried
Consistent with a proper pride
And manly self-respect.
He only, of the reverend pack
Who minister to Christians black,
Brought any useful knowledge back
To his Colonial fold.
In consequence a place I claim
For "PETER" on the scroll of Fame
(For PETER was that Bishop's name,
As I've already told).
He carried Art, he often said,
To places where that timid maid
(Save by Colonial Bishops' aid)
Could never hope to roam.
The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught
As he had learnt it; for he thought
The choicest fruits of Progress ought
To bless the Negro's home.
And he had other work to do,
For, while he tossed upon the Blue,
The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo
Forgot their kindly friend.
Their decent clothes they learnt to tear -
They learnt to say, "I do not care,"
Though they, of course, were well aware
How folks, who say so, end.
Some sailors, whom he did not know,
Had landed there not long ago,
And taught them "Bother!" also, "Blow!"
(Of wickedness the germs).
No need to use a casuist's pen
To prove that they were merchantmen;
No sailor of the Royal N.
Would use such awful terms.
And so, when BISHOP PETER came
(That was the kindly Bishop's name),
He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,
And chid their want of dress.
(Except a shell - a bangle rare -
A feather here - a feather there
The South Pacific Negroes wear
Their native nothingness.)
He taught them that a Bishop loathes
To listen to disgraceful oaths,
He gave them all his left-off clothes -
They bent them to his will.
The Bishop's gift spreads quickly round;
In PETER'S left-off clothes they bound
(His three-and-twenty suits they found
In fair condition still).
The Bishop's eyes with water fill,
Quite overjoyed to find them still
Obedient to his sovereign will,
And said, "Good Rum-ti-Foo!
Half-way I'll meet you, I declare:
I'll dress myself in cowries rare,
And fasten feathers in my hair,
And dance the 'Cutch-chi-boo!'" (13)
And to conciliate his See
He married PICCADILLILLEE,
The youngest of his twenty-three,
Tall - neither fat nor thin.
(And though the dress he made her don
Looks awkwardly a girl upon,
It was a great improvement on
The one he found her in.)
The Bishop in his gay canoe
(His wife, of course, went with him too)
To some adjacent island flew,
To spend his honeymoon.
Some day in sunny Rum-ti-Foo
A little PETER'll be on view;
And that (if people tell me true)
Is like to happen soon.
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The Tragic Death of the Rev. A.H. Mackonochie
Friends of humanity, of high and low degree,
I pray ye all come listen to me;
And truly I will relate to ye,
The tragic fate of the Rev. Alexander Heriot Mackonochie.
Who was on a visit to the Bishop of Argyle,
For the good of his health, for a short while;
Because for the last three years his memory had been affected,
Which prevented him from getting his thoughts collected.
'Twas on Thursday, the 15th of December, in the year of 1887,
He left the Bishop's house to go and see Loch Leven;
And he was accompanied by a little skye terrier and a deerhound,
Besides the Bishop's two dogs, that knew well the ground.
And as he had taken the same walk the day before,
The Bishop's mind was undisturbed and easy on that score;
Besides the Bishop had been told by some men,
That they saw him making his way up a glen.
From which a river flows down with a mighty roar,
From the great mountains of the Mamore;
And this route led him towards trackless wastes eastward,
And no doubt to save his life he had struggled very hard.
And as Mr Mackonochie had not returned at dinner time,
The Bishop ordered two men to search for him, which they didn't decline;
Then they searched for him along the road he should have returned,
But when they found him not, they sadly mourned.
And when the Bishop heard it, he procured a carriage and pair,
While his heart was full of woe, and in a state of despair;
He organised three search parties without delay,
And headed one of the parties in person without dismay.
And each party searched in a different way,
But to their regret at the end of the day;
Most unfortunately no discovery had been made,
Then they lost hope of finding him, and began to be afraid.
And as a last hope, two night searches were planned,
And each party with well lighted lamps in hand
Started on their perilous mission, Mr Mackonochie to try and find,
In the midst of driving hail, and the howling wind.
One party searched a distant sporting lodge with right good will,
Besides through brier, and bush, and snow, on the hill;
And the Bishop's party explored the Devil's Staircase with hearts full of woe,
A steep pass between the Kinloch hills, and the hills of Glencoe.
Oh! it was a pitch dark and tempestuous night,
And the searchers would have lost their way without lamp light;
But the brave searchers stumbled along for hours, but slow,
Over rocks, and ice, and sometimes through deep snow.
And as the Bishop's party were searching they met a third party from Glencoe side,
Who had searched bracken and burn, and the country wide;
And sorrow was depicted in each one's face,
Because of the Rev. Mr Mackonochie they could get no trace.
But on Saturday morning the Bishop set off again,
Hoping that the last search wouldn't prove in vain;
Accompanied with a crowd of men and dogs,
All resolved to search the forest and the bogs.
And the party searched with might and main,
Until they began to think their search would prove in vain;
When the Bishop's faithful dogs raised a pitiful cry,
Which was heard by the searchers near by.
Then the party pressed on right manfully,
And sure enough there were the dogs guarding the body of Mackonochie;
And the corpse was cold and stiff, having been long dead,
Alas! almost frozen, and a wreath of snow around the head.
And as the searchers gathered round the body in pity they did stare,
Because his right foot was stained with blood, and bare;
But when the Bishop o'er the corpse had offered up a prayer,
He ordered his party to'carry the corpse to his house on a bier.
So a bier of sticks was most willingly and quickly made,
Then the body was most tenderly upon it laid;
And they bore the corpse and laid inside the Bishop's private chapel,
Then the party took one sorrowful look and bade the corpse, farewell.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop
The summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet,
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around
The grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last-year's store,
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnish'd well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great Barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock'd from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.
Then when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all.
"I'faith 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he,
"And the country is greatly obliged to me,
For ridding it in these times forlorn
Of Rats that only consume the corn."
So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man;
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning as he enter'd the hall
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he look'd there came a man from his farm--
He had a countenance white with alarm;
"My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,
And the Rats had eaten all your corn."
Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be,
"Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he,
"Ten thousand Rats are coming this way,...
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"
"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he,
"'Tis the safest place in Germany;
The walls are high and the shores are steep,
And the stream is strong and the water deep."
Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away,
And he crost the Rhine without delay,
And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care
All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.
He laid him down and closed his eyes;...
But soon a scream made him arise,
He started and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow from whence the screaming came.
He listen'd and look'd;... it was only the Cat;
And the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sat screaming, mad with fear
At the Army of Rats that were drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep,
And they have climb'd the shores so steep,
And up the Tower their way is bent,
To do the work for which they were sent.
They are not to be told by the dozen or score,
By thousands they come, and by myriads and more,
Such numbers had never been heard of before,
Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore.
Down on his knees the Bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder drawing near
The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.
And in at the windows and in at the door,
And through the walls helter-skelter they pour,
And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,
And all at once to the Bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the Bishop's bones:
They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgment on him!
poem by Robert Southey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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About You My Friend
you do not steal from me
because whatever you take
when you are caught
i am always willing to give
do steal away from me again
and i will give it to you again and again
for in truth
i own nothing
and i am not taking anything
away from here
for in truth
we own everything
and you have the right to take what i think
i have inside my hand
i will always remember
the Bishop who gave the chandeliers
to Jean Valjean
who bought his soul
with silver
from God.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nothing is as far away as one minute ago.
quote by Jim Bishop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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