I was in the back part of the bunker, so I had to carry the whole bunker. It was probably 20 yards.
quote by Trent Dilfer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Went to 16 and hit a really bad 3 wood for my second shot and got stuck in the bunker about 70 yards from the pin. Poor execution, chunked it, hit a good chip up to about eight feet, missed it.
quote by Trent Dilfer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Craft and Wisemen vs Kraft und Eisen
CRAFT AND WISEMEN vs KRAFT UND EISEN
Sur[e]ly teutons were defeated
by hurly-burly true and sturdy -
tune called to their hurdy-gurdy -
‘might’ to ‘might not’ soon retreated.
Hate received a fate well meted
by G.I., Tommy, far less wordy,
rising with the early birdy,
not led from bed in bunker heated.
From eagle bunker dark, conceited,
go balls holed by expert birdie,
sonnet couplet scarce absurdy,
syllables sibillant repeated:
Trust, steady rations, puns, fun, custard,
bust heady passions, huns’ guns, mustard.
20 September 2005
robi03_1302_robi03_0000 SWX_MXX
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Is my friend in the bunker or is the bastard on the green
God don't make no mistakes. That's how He got to be God.
quote by Archie Bunker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A billion dollars isn't what it used to be.
quote by Nelson Bunker Hunt
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My dear, did you ever stop to think what a wonderful bunker you would make?
quote by Walter Hagen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Maybe they continued to agree with Archie Bunker - as I said earlier, you can't change people's minds, but you can get them to think.
quote by Norman Lear
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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People who know how much they're worth aren't usually worth that much.
quote by Nelson Bunker Hunt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By The Fire... (Part Eight)
build a bridge, or build a bunker...
your choice!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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London's Burning
His eyes reflect the golden fire, his pupils burning bright
As he turns away they feel a sudden, crying urge to fight
Big Old Ben has run away, they always thought it might
London's Burning
London's Burning
The chapels down in Kensington are bursting into flames
The children of the neighbourhood are dancing, gone insane
They hug their parent's knees and try to cry away the shame
London's Burning
London's Burning
Members of the royalty rush in to see the Queen
She's rushed off to a bunker, told to wait and not to scream
But all of London's gone aflame, her bunker traps her here
London's Burning
London's Burning
Teenage gangs are on the prowl, they go from place to place
They need no names or calls or shouts, don't need know their race
Just know that all who wear a hood are filled to burst with rage
London's Burning
London's Burning
2 weeks on, the smoke has gone and rebels rule the streets
No-one walks the road at all for fear of who they'll meet
The dead are marked with crosses red and hid with pale sheets
London's Burning
London's Burning
2 more weeks, rotting flesh is all that you can smell
Water's got infected, and the food's all gone as well
The only people left, they wander in a living hell
London's Burning
London's Burning
poem by Matt Pocock
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Pledging Support
You throw the berries in the river
to stun the fish.
A mannequin wants to go nude.
The tormentor holes up
in a bunker.
You undertake a fast
to clean the dirty plumes of
a swan who will not take a flight
in blackening dawn.
The curse was on the hooks
who will bite only the plastic
dolls. O moonless night, I
want to disappear in the silk
of queer crowds.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Ineffective Scarecrow
Perhaps he is sick of being a scarecrow
As I sometimes ache to be anything other than me
Now that I'm all dried up, like a squeezed orange
Like a swan on tenterhooks
Treading a path between broken dreams and ashes
The scarecrow wants to go back to being a stick
No more predators, loneliness, crows
With their constant cawing
He is sick of being a warning in the wind
He is sick of being one foot stuck in the dark
He dreams of being a spoke in St. Catherine's wheel
A moment of burning glory, then adieu
Of being a broom in Hitler's final bunker
Sweeping aside the bullets and swastikas
poem by Sheena Blackhall
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Held Prisoner In Underground Bunker 5.10.2008
Reading Stephen O’Brien, stating radio and
television are advised by governing bodies
to treat clairvoyance skeptically as
pure entertainment
Preventing the unthinking public from considering
its far-reaching claims, a public made up of
disciplinarians whose freedom has been
taken away
All held prisoner in the underground bunker of
their mind’s dungeon - the media providing
the imprisoning
ideas…
poem by Margaret Alice
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Carry Me Through
Time has come,
To start my search for tomorrow.
On and on,
Theres just no end to the sorrow.
But I designed a way,
To see my life through pity.
I dont have too much to say,
And the tears wont let me be.
So,
Chorus
Carry me through the hard part.
Help me find a new start.
Carry me through the hard part.
Far too long,
Ive thought of all the excuses.
Try to go on,
And stay my time to an end.
Dreams in my head,
All turning dark and useless.
Help me find the hand,
That knows where Ive been.
Please,
Chorus
Ahhhhhh ...
Ahhhhhh ...
Carry me through ...
Carry me through ...
Carry me through ...
Carry me, carry me, carry me ...
song performed by by Grand Funk Railroad
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Keep five yards from a carriage, ten yards from a horse, and a hundred yards from an elephant; but the distance one should keep from a wicked man cannot be measured.
Remembrance
A tribal fear
was lurking,
behind a surge of emotion.
The sun was looking black.
A sexual abuse
of a quaint flower
aborts the fruit.
This year we will go hungry.
A nascent seed
stripped on road-
cries for water.
We hear without listening.
Death by a grave
was a domestic claim.
But you were found dead in a bunker.
Life vows to stand alone
on the burning deck-
of a turbulent ship.
The ocean will find a bloody hand one day.
poem by Satish Verma
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I Will
I will
Lay me down
In a bunker
Underground
I won't let this happen to my children
Meet the real world coming out of your shell
With white elephants
Sitting ducks
I will
rise up
Little babies eyes eyes eyes eyes
Little babies eyes eyes eyes eyes
Little babies eyes eyes eyes eyes
Little babies eyes eyes eyes
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scavenging For Coal
At the back
of the coal wharf
you and Fay
picked up coal pieces
that fell through
the iron railings
and put them
in an old bag from home
Fay looked
at her blackened fingers
and said
if my daddy sees
these fingers
and finds out
what I've been doing
he'll spank me
for sure
you gazed at her
beside you
and said
you can wash your hands
at my place
she looked around
at the bombsite behind you
the evening sun
slowly going down
behind the railway bridge
and nearby buildings
what if someone sees you
she asked
picking up these pieces?
no one worries about this
all the kids do it
you replied
my daddy says
it is evil to steal
she said
you put a black piece
of coal in the bag
and lifted it
to feel the weight
that's enough
you said
too much
and I won't be able
to carry it
Fay stood up
and looked around
at the darkening sky
you held the bag
in one hand
and scanned
the area around you
let's go
you said
and so you both
walked away
from the coal wharf
into Meadow Row
by the public house
where piano music played
and down towards
the flats
where you lived
and after climbing
the concrete stairs
to your landing
you opened the door
and put the bag
by the indoor
coal bunker
and showed Fay
where to wash her hands
turning on
the cold water tap
you both washed
your hands
with the red
Life Buoy soap
her hands near yours
her wet flesh
touching yours
the black water
running away
and another adventure
and another day.
poem by Terry Collett
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Rogue Elephant
The reason to be autonomous is to stand there,
a cleared instrument, ready to act, to search
the moral realm and actual conditions for what
needs to be done and to do it: fine, the
best, if it works out, but if, like a gun, it
comes in handy to the wrong choice, why then
you see the danger in the effective: better
then an autonomy that stands and looks about,
negotiating nothing, the supreme indifferences:
is anything to be gained where as much is lost:
and if for every action there is an equal and
opposite reaction has the loss been researched
equally with the gain: you can see how the
milling actions of millions could come to a
buzzard-like glide as from a coincidental,
warm bottom of water stuck between chilled
peaks: it is not so easy to say, OK, go on
out and act: who, doing what, to what or
whom: just a minute: should the bunker be
bombed (if it stores gas): should all the
rattlers die just because they rattle: if I
hear the young gentleman vomiter roaring down
the hall in the men's room, should I go and
inquire of him, reducing him to my care: no
wonder the great sayers (who say nothing) sit
about in inaccessible states of mind: no
wonder still wisdom and catatonia appear to
exchange places occasionally: but if anything
were easy, our easy choices soon would carry
away our ignorance with the world-better
let the mixed-up mix and let the surface shine
with all the possibilities, each in itself.
poem by Archie Randolph Ammons
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My Sad Guitar (In Iraq)
When I play...my sad guitar,
With powered chords...of deep emotion.
I strum the strings...with such devotion,
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
When I play...my sad guitar,
In a bunker, built in the sand.
This war torn country, this desert land,
I miss playing...In a rock and roll band.
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
When I play...my sad guitar,
My memories play,
Deep in my mind,
I try to find-
Our... wedding... day!
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
When I play...my sad guitar,
I think of my Harley...My hot-rod car,
Wishing I was home,
With a beer in a bar.
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
poem by Philip Lore
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