Talk of joy there may be things better than beef stew and baked potatoes and home-made bread -- there may be.
quote by David Grayson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Talk of joy: there may be things better than beef stew and baked potatoes and home-made bread - there may be.
quote by David Grayson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We Got The Beef
Had ourselves a little barbeque
Corn on the cob and mashed potatoes too
Joe got the fritos, ernie got the stew
So what did you bring
We got the beef
We got the beef
We got the beef
Yeah, we got it
(we got the beef)
Now, everybody get on your feet (we got the beef)
Grab a hunk of ? ? ? beef (we got the beef)
Chuck daddy (we got the beef)
Now, ground round by the pound
We got the beef (we got the beef)
We got the beef (we got the beef, we got the beef)
We got the beef (we got the beef, we got the)
We got the beef
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'll Eat The Fish
I use to like it well done not rare.
Prepared tenderly as if one cared.
I had to have my steak well cooked and baked.
I use to slice it into pieces split,
With fried potatoes...
And some wine to slowly sip.
But when I changed my diet I got into fish.
And I discovered baked fish was quite delicious.
That was it.
And today there is no beef for me,
I'll eat the fish!
I use to slice my beef into tiny pieces split.
But when I changed my diet I got into the fish.
That was it.
That was it.
And today there is no beef for me I will eat the fish!
That is it for me...
Today I'm on the fish!
I use to like it well done not rare.
Prepared tenderly as if one cared.
I had to have my steak well cooked and baked.
I use to slice it into pieces split,
With fried potatoes...
And some wine to slowly sip.
But today there is no beef for me I will eat the fish!
That is it for me...
Today I'm on the fish!
Today there is no beef for me I will eat the fish!
That is it for me...
Today I'm on the fish!
Even fish sticks,
Will be eaten very quick.
I will handled eating up those fish sticks very quick.
Especially if they're deep fried and battered!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Mother (My Point of View)
Sewing machine:
Jean patches,
Superman capes,
Dress hems 10pm,
Night before the concert.
Kitchen sink:
Baking-powder biscuits,
Crock pot beef stew,
Chicken with carrots and potatoes.
Not college food.
Minivan:
Shuttle the boys from school,
Aftercare, soccer, track,
Basketball, haircut, orthodontist's.
Buy printer ink, daddy bread,
Poster board for Elias's project due Tuesday.
College mail box:
Socks I forgot over Christmas,
Picture of the boys and I
With our gingerbread house.
Dad's pumpkin bread,
Waterproof gloves,
Cutting board.
Mother:
Band-aid, bathroom cleanser,
Dry clothes, spaghetti sauce.
Emergency contact.
Porch light on late nights.
poem by Gina Prettybrowneyes
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Hot Potatoes
My baby woke me up this mornin
She said get down that labour exchange,
And if you dont come home with a job son,
Youll get no dinner to-day.
You gotta secure me a weekly workin wage.
Youll get no more fancy cookin,
Youll get no more apple pie,
Youll just get those plain hot potatoes
To satisfy your appetite.
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes, yeh,
I want your lovin every single day.
I said I dont need your fancy cooking,
I like the simple things in life,
Just give me those plain hot potatoes
And Ill be well satisfied,
Theyll satisfy my appetite.
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes, yeh,
I want your lovin 60 minutes an hour,
I want your lovin 24 hours a day,
I want your lovin 7 days a week.
Yeh, yeh, oh yeh.
I want your love, I need your love,
But all I get is hot potatoes
When I come home late at night
To satisfy my appetite.
Dont give me no more potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes,
I want your lovin every single day.
I want your lovin
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes, hot potatoes, yeh.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Special Bread For My Lover
Take wheat, barley, beans, lentils, millet ans spelt;
Mixed them in one bowl to make the special bread for my lover;
For the fuel of a cow's dung is not what she needs.
They will eat bread by weight and in anxiety,
And they will drink water by measure and in desolation;
But my lover will eat the special bread as baked from you!
For the prophets are like the jackals in the ruins and,
Their visions are false and their days are at hand.
Every vision to my sweet lover is fulfilled,
For she has now got the special bread as baked by you;
And you did as instructed by my formula.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The 'Potato' Poem
I love potatoes chopped up into chunky chips.
I love spicy potato wedges, served up with dips.
I love potato slices which have been fried in a pan:
Of sautéed potatoes, I am the world's biggest fan.
I love potatoes which have been pummelled and bashed
With butter and milk to make a real light, fluffy mash.
Jacket potatoes, I find a bit dry, but with a nice filling
Such as chilli, to give them a try, I am more willing.
With breakfast, I love hash browns or potato cakes,
And I love potatoes mixed up with leeks in a bake.
Crispy, golden potatoes, served up with Sunday roast
Are among the kinds of potato which I love the most.
Mixed in soups and casseroles, I love potatoes diced.
On top on minced beef hotpot, I love potatoes sliced.
Fluffy potato stuffed inside a crispy potato croquette
Is also rather nice, and, for me, it is another safe bet.
I love potatoes cut into crisps: the slices, wafer thin,
And, as a starter, I simply love loaded potato skins:
I do adore a delicious dish of Bombay potato curry:
For me, it is a taste which I won't forget in a hurry.
I like potatoes diced up with creamy mayonnaise,
Served up with salad on really hot summer days.
But I don't like potatoes which have been boiled:
From potatoes, cooked this way, in horror, I recoil.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude IV.
When the long murmur of applause
That greeted the Musician's lay
Had slowly buzzed itself away,
And the long talk of Spectre Ships
That followed died upon their lips
And came unto a natural pause,
'These tales you tell are one and all
Of the Old World,' the Poet said,
'Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall,
Dead leaves that rustle as they fall;
Let me present you in their stead
Something of our New England earth,
A tale which, though of no great worth,
Has still this merit, that it yields
A certain freshness of the fields,
A sweetness as of home-made bread.'
The Student answered: 'Be discreet;
For if the flour be fresh and sound,
And if the bread be light and sweet,
Who careth in what mill 't was ground,
Or of what oven felt the heat,
Unless, as old Cervantes said,
You are looking after better bread
Than any that is made of wheat?
You know that people nowadays
To what is old give little praise;
All must be new in prose and verse:
They want hot bread, or something worse,
Fresh every morning, and half baked;
The wholesome bread of yesterday,
Too stale for them, is thrown away,
Nor is their thirst with water slaked.
As oft we see the sky in May
Threaten to rain, and yet not rain,
The Poet's face, before so gay,
Was clouded with a look of pain,
But suddenly brightened up again;
And without further let or stay
He told his tale of yesterday.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Heat It In The Kettle
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Mix and blend before you can,
Put in the potatoes.
Mix and blend before you can,
Add the tomatoes.
Heat it in the kettle then...
Use chopped beef.
Or any kind of meat.
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Mix and blend before you can,
Put in the potatoes.
Add the tomatoes.
Use chopped beef.
Or any kind of meat.
Heat it in the kettle then
Heat it in the kettle then
Heat it in the kettle then...
Feed me love!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Special Family Memories
I have special family memories
Of when I was just a child
My family did things together
More often than once in awhile
We would go to church together
Then afterward a Sunday drive
With roast beef and mashed potatoes
When back home we’d later arrive
We’d to go the movies on occasion
My mom, dad, brother and me
I remember especially seeing Bambi
Although that was sad for me to see
But family is so important
It creates a special bond
I have many family memories
Of which I’m so terribly fond!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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The big question
Sex is this wondrous, marvellous thing
that the young discover
and bring home to mother
Mother, of course, only ever indulged
that night that the light bulb
blew up in the lounge.
She never enjoyed anything quite so rude,
she just thought of England
or made us beef stew.
Sex is reserved for the young, so it seems,
their mothers don't do it
it's far too obscene.
What about fathers, perhaps, do you think?
Do fathers all do it?
Ask mum in a tick!
Mother denies it; she says it's not true!
Then how come she gave birth
to me and to you?
poem by Ruth Walters
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Stiff Upper Lip
What made good queen bess
Such a great success?
What made wellington
Do what he did at waterloo?
What makes every englishman
A fighter through and through?
It isnt roast beef, or ale, or home, or mother
Its just a little thing they sing to one another
Stiff upper lip, stout fella
Carry on, old fluff
Chin up, keep muddling through
Stiff upper lip, stout fella
When the goings rough
Pip pip to old man trouble
And a toodly-oo too
Carry on through thick and thin
If you feel youre in the right
Does the fighting spirit win?
Quite, quite, quite, quite, quite
Stiff upper lip, stout fella
When youre in the stew
Sober or blotto, this is your motto
Keep muddling through
(instrumental bridge)
When a bounder starts to hiss
You must give him blow for blow
Make the blighter say, whats this?
'ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo
Stiff upper lip, stout fella
When youre in the stew
Sober or blotto, this is your motto
Keep muddling through
Keep muddling through
Keep muddling through
Keep muddling through
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Mom Is the Best Mom
She’s my first home
for nine months
and for my first nine years
she was always there for me
still treating me as her precious baby
feeding me rice and fish
beef, ham or anything deliciously prepared
and even a simple sunrise egg
was a gourmet
She’s the best chef
and I miss the moment
she would use her bare hands
shaping the food to anything
just to persuade us
to eat while we were playing
and just let us be kids for those moments.
Then sometimes I would just wait in the kitchen
as she baked cakes and cookies
while I was watching her
creating magic out from flour, sugar, eggs chocolates and any else
and my favorite from her is her home baked chiffon cake.
and during my first day in school
I was in panic
I felt not safe without her
and my first year in school
I couldn’t concentrate in the lessons
my mind was always thinking
of going home
and during middle school
She was my inspiration
just wanted my mom to be at the stage
to place my medal for excellence
I love my mom so much
She’s the best mother in the neighborhood
all mom’s in the neighborhood go to work
but my mom sacrifice her work for us
to show her love 24 hours a day.
My mom is the best mom
Hope I can be the best son too
: D
poem by Champs Ulysses Cabinatan
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Sky Reflection
Quiet sky reflection
The sky over Europe is silent, but there is fear in the air, few lemons no oranges
and no mangos for starters. When planes do not pollute the sky we starve.
I remember a time when what we ate followed seasons plenty of fruit in the fall
of which we made jam. But we did have plenty of turnips. At Christmas, we killed
a pig and a ship docked with festive oranges and bananas. Millions of people are
stranded on foreign shores desperate to get home, planes are to refined to pass
a bit of volcanic ash. (And, it is called progress) a question remains why did they
leave in the first place? why are they so desperate to get back to the rainy place
they left? Mind, many didn’t want to go, but holidaying is a must, a human right.
Shoulder to shoulder with fellow travelers, suffer the indignity of being treated
as cattle at airports and made to like it. To be met with distain behind skilled at
at some dreadful hotel and be forced to eat when it suits the staff. You are not
a person, but a tourist good for the economy of, say, Spain. It worries me this
interconnected world a strike and a bit of ash and we have no potatoes, the most
stable of food. We must rethink globalization; learn to be more self-sufficient, let
our menus follow the seasons. Lamb with mint sauce is Easter food we need not
eat lamb in October but Irish stew with turnips and boiled home grown potatoes.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fish sticks and beef stew that millions of children love to hate.
quote by Marian Burros
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Test My Appetite
Some prefer and choose perfection,
To convey ideals...
Promoted to instill.
With a showing of a knowledge...
In a hope that this appeals.
And then there are those,
Who have chosen to be real.
Grounded and solid of sound minds.
To find they are critiqued...
By those of the pretentious kind.
'It is not proper etiquette,
To dip biscuits in stew.'
~Hey...
I am here to eat.
Not to see what others do.
And IF you're looking for a silver spoon.
To eat your stew?
You go and do that.
And my biscuits will be in your stew too!
In these times,
I will nourish first...
Before rehearsing any refinement,
I've learned from the past.
But today does not work.~
'It is not proper etiquette,
To dip biscuits in stew.'
~Hey...
I am here to eat.
Not to see what others do.
And IF you're looking for a silver spoon.
To eat your stew?
You go and do that.
And my biscuits will be in your stew too!
Go ahead!
Test my appetite!
I dare you.
Leave that stew.
And I'll show you what can be done with it.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I'm Gonna Have A Little Talk
I'm gonna have a little talk with Jesus
When I get home tonight
Gonna tell him all about my troubles
And I know he'll make them right
Then I'll ask him to forgive me
For the things that I've done wrong
Gonna have a little talk with Jesus
Tonight when I get home
This world can be a struggle
Just livin' day to day
You'll run into the devil
With every step you take
I seen his face a hundred times
As he tried to lead me wrong
He don't understand
That I don't walk this road alone
I'm gonna have a little talk with Jesus
When I get home tonight
Gonna tell him all about my troubles
And I know he'll make them right
Then I'll ask him to forgive me
For the things that I've done wrong
Gonna have a little talk with Jesus
Tonight when I get home
Lord said I could call on him
When ever I feel low
Any time or place I needed him
He would gladly go
My life has not been perfect
No matter how I try
But he's never turned his back on me
And that's the reason why
I'm gonna have a little talk with Jesus
When I get home tonight
Gonna tell him all about my troubles
And I know he'll make them right
Then I'll ask him to forgive me
For the things that I've done wrong
Gonna have a little talk with Jesus
Tonight when I get home
I'm gonna have a little talk with Jesus
When I get home tonight
Gonna tell him all about my troubles
And I know he'll make them right
Then I'll ask him to forgive me
For the things that I've done wrong
Gonna have a little talk with Jesus
Tonight when I get home
I'm Gonna have a little talk with Jesus
Ton
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Mother
Who was always there when I needed her most?
Who always made the best beef roast?
Who was always there for me to talk to,
when ever I was feeling down and very blue?
When In trouble, who got me out of it?
Still she loved me, even when I had a fit.
She would hug me and say, 'Don't worry,
take your time and don't hurry.'
When ever I said, 'I can't do it.'
She replied, 'Yes you can, don't worry a bit'.
When I left home, she cried and said 'Good bye,
then, said she, 'Now remember don't lie'
Someday, sometime or another,
I will see you again, dear old Mother.
A Ballad Of Refreshment
The lady stood at the station bar,
(Three currants in a bun)
And oh she was proud, as ladies are.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
For a weekly wage she was standing there,
(Three currants in a bun)
With a prominent bust and light gold hair.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
The express came in at half-past two,
(Three currants in a bun)
And there lighted a man in the navy blue.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A stout sea-captain he was, I ween.
(Three currants in a bun)
Much travel had made him very keen.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A sober man and steady was he.
(Three currants in a bun)
He called not for brandy, but called for tea.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
'Now something to eat, for the train is late.'
(Three currants in a bun)
She brought him a bun on a greasy plate.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
He left the bun, and he left the tea,
(Three currants in a bun)
She charged him a shilling and let him be,
And the train went on at a quarter to three.
(And the bun is old and weary.)
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Barmbrack
I break this brack, a bread of fruit,
A bread too good for the eating.
My wives still make me some sawn ring,
A bagel, or a bangle, or sweet pie so much.
My breakfast needs a bracelet
From the opposition, an angry mob,
Who condemn my family of loaf-eaters;
Their argument survived,
And all I ate was the actual bread
That was baked a dozen times a day.
poem by Naveed Akram
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