A clock struck out the hour of twelve, and the bird in the hedgerow was still singing as we marched out to the roadway, and followed our merry pipers home to town.
quote by Patrick MacGill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Twelve O'Clock
Mother, I do want to leave off my lessons now. I have been at my
book all the morning.
You say it is only twelve o'clock. Suppose it isn't any later;
can't you ever think it is afternoon when it is only twelve
o'clock?
I can easily imagine now that the sun has reached the edge of
that rice-field, and the old fisher-woman is gathering herbs for
her supper by the side of the pond.
I can just shut my eyes and think that the shadows are growing
darker under the madar tree, and the water in the pond looks shiny
black.
If twelve o'clock can come in the night, why can't the night
come when it is twelve o'clock?
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Singing Merry Christmas
Another time of year
Has come
To be loved in a special
Way
We will try to do whats
Right
On this very merry christmas
Day
Candles burning
Children singing goodnight
Theres no worries
Because santas on his way
So merry christmas to you
Merry christmas to all who share
On christmas day
Merry christmas to you
Singing merry christmas
Although many years
Have passed
Im sure the (? ) of christmas
Remains the same
Candles burning
Children singing goodnight
Theres no worries
Because santas on his way
So merry christmas to you
Merry christmas to all who share
On christmas day
Merry christmas to you
Singing merry christmas
Through all the people I know
And all the people I care for
Well make christmas last
Forever
So come along everyone
And sing this song with us
Singing merry christmas
To you
Merry christmas to all
Who share on christmas day
Merry christmas to you
Singing merry christmas
Singing merry christmas
To you
Merry christmas to all
Who share on christmas day
Merry christmas to you
Singing merry christmas
Santas on his way
Santas on his way
Singing merry christmas
song performed by by New Edition
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Horse and Cart Ferry
It was old Jerry Brown,
Who’d an office in town,
And he used to get jocular, very;
And he’d go to the Shore
When they’d serve him no more,
And, of course, by the passenger ferry,
A sight on the passenger ferry.
Now this is a song of the ferry,
And a lay of the juice of the berry;
’Tis the ballad of Brown,
Who’d a business in town,
And commenced to go down
Very slow,
Don’t you know?
By coming home just a bit merry.
By the Drunks’ Boat—that’s right—
On a Saturday night
He would often be past being merry;
With his back teeth afloat,
On the twelve o’clock boat,
And a spectacle there on the ferry
(A picture to all on the ferry).
In the mornings, ashamed—
’Twas the last drink he blamed,
Though the first was the matter with Jerry,
With his nerve out of joint,
He’d sneak down to Blue’s Point,
And he’d cross by the horse-and-cart ferry,
Like a thief—by the horse-and-cart ferry.
But long before night
He’d most likely be tight,
And a subject and theme for George Perry;
And he’d cross to the Shore,
Somewhat worse than before,
And a nuisance to all on the ferry;
Singing-drunk on the passenger ferry.
And so it went on
Till his reason seemed gone,
And the Law, so it seemed, got a derry
On Brown. He went down,
And they sent him to town
One day, by “the trap,” on the ferry—
The Government trap on the ferry.
He was sober and sane
When he came back again,
And the past he’d determined to bury—
Or, I mean, live it down—
And he crossed from the town
Like a man, on the passenger ferry.
(There were sceptical souls on that ferry.)
They say ’twas the jaw
Of his mother-in-law
Drove him back to the juice of the berry;
But he soon got afloat
On the passenger boat
Or adrift on the horse-and-cart ferry
(Wrongly called the ve-hic-ular ferry).
The drink had him fast,
And he drank till at last
He dried up—a withered old cherry;
And they thought him no loss
When they sent him across
In a box, on the cart-and-horse ferry—
In a low, covered trap on the ferry.
Which I rise to explain—
If the moral ain’t plain,
And if you’re a cove that gets merry—
Always stick, when “afloat,”
To the passenger boat;
Or else to the cart-and-horse ferry,
Or you’ll make matters worse, like old Jerry.
But this is the song of the ferry,
And the lay of the juice of the berry;
And you will not deny—
If you read by-and-bye—
That the casual eye
Of the Tight
At first sight
Misses much in the song of the ferry.
poem by Henry Lawson
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It's Five O'Clock Somewhere
[Alan:]
The sun is hot and that old clock,
is movin' slow, and so am I.
Work day passes like molasses,
in winter time, but it's July.
Getting paid by the hour,
and older by the minute.
My boss just pushed me,
over the limit.
I could call him something,
think I'll just call it a day...
Pour me something tall and strong.
Make it a hurricane, before I go insane.
It's only half past twelve. But I don't care,
it's five o'clock somewhere.
This lunch break is gonna take
all afternoon, half the night.
Tomorrow morning I know there'll be hell to pay,
but, hey, that's all right.
I ain't had a day off now, in over a year.
My Jamaican vacation's gonna start right here.
If the phone's for me you can tell them
I just sailed away....
Pour me something tall and strong.
Make it a hurricane, before I go insane.
It's only half past twelve. But I don't care,
it's five o'clock somewhere.
[Instrumental]
I could pay off my tab, pour myself in a cab,
and be back to work before two.
At a moment like this, I can't help but wonder,
what would Jimmy Buffett do.
[Jimmy:]
Funny you should ask Alan, I'd say...
Pour me something tall and strong.
Make it a hurricane, before I go insane.
It's only half past twelve, but I don't care.
[Together:]
Pour me something tall and strong.
Make it a hurricane, before I go insane.
It's only half past twelve. But I don't care,
it's five o'clock somewhere.
[Alan:]
... but he don't care, I don't care.
Together
It's five o'clock somewhere.
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Home
My home
Or is it?
The home of the sandy shells
From the beach?
Whispering
Whispering
Whispering
Or it could be the home
Of the old fireplace?
Where the fire burns bright
In the dark
In the dark
In the dark
Could it be the home
Of the loud clock?
Going
Tick
Tick
Tick
Or the home
Of the happy music boxes?
Singing
Singing
Singing
This is my home
poem by Jesse love
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Eight O'Clock
He stood, and heard the steeple
Sprinkle the quarters on the morning town.
One, two, three, four, to market-place and people
It tossed them down.
Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour,
He stood and counted them and cursed his luck;
And then the clock collected in the tower
Its strength, and struck.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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Sown Home Town
The world outside don't like us much,
'Cos they ain't got our classy touch,
But they ain't good enough to breathe,
This towns good air we make 'em leave
CHORUS
But it's no, no, no,
you really can't do that,
No, no, no,
down home town
No monkey business in this town,
Well who do you think you're pushing 'round,
This towns respectable and clean,
Just look around you'll see what I mean
CHORUS Repeat
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
CHORUS Repeat
We got the best town band around,
Just listen to their crazy sound
When they get hot they gonna blow,
You see them running every show
(I wish I was in the land of Dixie
Look Away...)
Down home town,
Gotta get down
Down home town
Gotta get down
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
CHORUS
(I wish I was in the land of Dixie
Look Away...)
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Singing Birds Are Endangered Species!
Singing bird's songs
enjoyed,
wonderful melody, wonderful words,
Rhapsodical Sometimes,
More often romantic!
A power hungry,
another powerful
both listen a while,
They want the bird to sing for them!
Now the bird has to stop singing,
Or should think of flying far away!
Power hungry will kill
or powerful will,
Singing bird ability of throat
Is its own enemy,
Two hands are ready to squeeze,
Two blades ready to cut,
Singing bird's throat often
squeezed,
Several died,
not even found in history,
they fear even that bird's story!
For it sings only truth,
Singing birds throat is cut,
Because it can't keep its mouth shut!
Poor bird! Its talent,
gifted voice became
its own enemy,
Not even they are listed
Though singing birds are endangered species!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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The Fall of Fitzmickle
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Rules with an iron rod
His house and home; 'neath its red-tiled dome
He struts like a little tin god.
When Popper says stay, the family stay;
When Popper says go, they go;
And early and late, like the trumpet of Fate,
Sounds the fierce Fitzmicklean 'No!'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Came on his small son when
There, listening in to the cricketing din,
He sat as the clock struck ten.
'What? Sporting rubbish? At this hour, too!'
Said he: and his brow grew black.
'Things that I wouldn't do my son musn't do.
Bed, sir! And don't answer me back!'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
His hand on the wireless switch,
Listened a wile, and a ghost of a smile
His stern face seemed to twitch.
'Another man out!' He paused in doubt,
As he noted the latest score.
'Well, I might as well sit and listen a bit;
But a bare half hour, no more.'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Just as the clock struck four,
Weary and worn in the cold, bleak morn
Crept by his small son's door.
And out of the stygian darkness there,
Swift to discover his sin,
A small voice cried from the gloom inside:
'Please Popper. Did our side win?'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cinderella was a good girl who went with the flow;
When the clock struck twelve, she knew she must go,
As she followed the good godmothers advice
And she never even had to think twice:
'Don't stay out after midnight, or you'll turn to a Ho.'
quote by by Patti Masterman
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Christmas Poem 1
Merry christmas Merry chrismas,
My heart is singing, My heart is swinging,
Was looking for the day, The most beautiful day,
For the whole year, For entire Year.
Did lots of decorations, On a big christmas tree,
Around all our surroundings, With colourful lights
And with so many gifts and So many toys
Did lots of preparations, Tasty cakes
So many sweets and Many candies,
Wishing to meet and greet Happy Christmas,
Looking forward for Santa to come my home
To give us lots of Happiness and Lots of gifts,
My heart is singing, My heart swinging,
Merry christmas, Merry christmas.
poem by Naga Bhanu Vemuri
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The Dinkey Bird
In an ocean, 'way out yonder,
(As all sapient people know)
Is the land of Wonder-Wander,
Whither children love to go;
It's their playing, romping, swinging,
That give great joy to me
While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing
In the amfalula tree!
There the gum-drops grow like cherries,
And taffy's thick as peas--
Caramels you pick like berries
When, and where, and how you please;
Big red sugar-plums are clinging
To the cliffs beside that sea
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the amfalula tree!
So when children shout and scamper
And make merry all the day,
When there's naught to put a damper
To the ardor of their play;
When I hear their laughter ringing,
Then I'm sure as sure can be
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the amfalula tree!
For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras
And staccatos are so sweet--
His roulades, appoggiaturas,
And robustos so complete,
That the youth of every nation--
Be they near or far away--
Have especial delectation
In that gladsome roundelay.
Their eyes grow bright and brighter,
Their lungs begin to crow,
Their hearts get light and lighter,
And their cheeks are all aglow;
For an echo cometh bringing
The news to all and me,
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the amfalula tree.
I'm sure you like to go there
To see your feathered friend--
And so many goodies grow there
You would like to comprehend!
Speed, little dreams, your winging
To that land across the sea
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the amfalula tree!
poem by Eugene Field
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When I was twelve, I went hunting with my father and we shot a bird. He was laying there and something struck me. Why do we call this fun to kill this creature who was as happy as I was when I woke up this morning.
Soul Singing
Written by: r. robinson & c. robinson
Ive been down
Cascading and blue w/out a sound
Now Ive traded my black feathers for a crown
So feed me milk & honey
Lay me down
Lay me down
Look around
Show me holy places not yet found
Lets disappear and well hide underground
Well get high and well feel safe & sound
It comes around arayayayound
Chorus:
You got my soul singing my soul singing
You got my soul singing my soul singing
You got my soul singing my soul singing
You got my soul singing my soul singing
Home bound
Tired of tired of running town to town
Tired of my heart turned upside down
Now my lifes a smile not a frown
The sound
The sound
Chorus
song performed by by Black Crowes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Clock Struck 15 Hours Ago
And the clock struck fifteen hours ago; it is shining
And the man who is wasting on the wall
Looks a lot like Jesus
And a little bit resembling
the man in the mirror in the hall
And I rose-trayed sailors
And you still shining
And I'm till waiting to got
And I lied for sailors
And I lied for certain
And I lied to everyone I know
Oh I'd believe in God and I'd believe in loving
but I don't speak to anyone who knows
And I need four 50's and three yellow lemons
And someone to take me home
And I'd forgotten the one who was sailing
on the water down beside where you don't go
And it's strange to tell
that the one who is shining
is someone I forgot I used to know
And the clock struck fifteen hours ago
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Clock Struck Fifteen Hours Ago
And the clock struck fifteen hours ago; it is shining
And the man who is wasting on the wall
Looks a lot like Jesus
And a little bit resembling
The man in the mirror in the hall
And I rose-trayed sailors
And you still shining
And I'm still waiting not to go
And I lied for sailors
And I lied for certain
And I lied to everyone I know
I believe in God and I believe in loving
But I don't speak to anyone who knows
And I need four 50's and three yellow lemons
And someone to take me home
And I'd forgotten the one who is sailing
On the water beside where you don't go
And it's strange to tell that the one who is shining
Is someone I forgot I used to know
And the clock struck fifteen hours ago
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene from B-Sides: Seasides & Freerides
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The blue sky in my home
The blue sky in my home
Good morning, bird
Good morning, sun
The blue sky in my home
I miss in my every day
For my clothes wet
To be dry
Good morning, bird
Good morning, sun
I miss you singing in the morning
When the sun rising
I miss you singing in the morning
When my mom cooking
The blue sky the singing bird the sun rising
Before I leaving
Praying to raise up my dreaming
Kadilangu, feb/03/2oo8
poem by Khoirun Niam
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Clock O Clock of Times
Hours of the night in their deep
Sinuous on and always flowing
Fog bound rhythm speeding keep
Their onward footsteps going
Yesterday is now becoming new
In the rushes hours gnawing on
Clearance of the daybreaks thru
Till old shadow’s dance are gone
In the litter of their lost time
Everything moves forward still
Eve goes and morning‘s in prime
Every opportunity to fulfill
Clock o clock of times keeping
Rushing hours thru to make more
All old of dust down sweeping
Opening up the pluviose door
So much in the moldering way
Like the cadences of fog bound
Coming thru but no time to stay
All’s going in the merry-go-round
Feelings lost in pacing’s to break
As this roadway leads to its side
New thoughts in moving uptake
Is there now time for some abide?
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Parantha’s Dream
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
The twelve year old boy
Parantha Parapanjani
yearned to be a drummer
in the Royal Indian Army.
Using two wooden sticks
and a biscuit tin so old,
he imitated the drummers
and their drum rolls.
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
A thief stole his drum
leaving him with nothing to play,
but his father’s old tin leg,
stepped in to save the day.
From a string around his neck,
it swung about his waist,
as he practiced with the band
outside the military gates.
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
One day a limping man and boy
walked down the busy street,
as Parantha drummed up
a leg moving kind of beat.
The regimental sergeant major
recognised the sound,
and saw the leg being played,
as it made its way to town.
So impressed was the sergeant
he enlisted the boy in the band.
A new side-drum he was given
and a stick for each hand.
He marched up and down
with his Indian army band,
so proud to be a drummer,
with a stick in each hand.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The New Recruit
The lads were once my comrades,
They stay at home content.
And now's the time of cricket,
They count the days well spent.
They walk with girls o' Sundays,
All in their Sunday clothes;
And of a Sunday evening
Go where good liquor flows.
Their way's no longer my way,
For I must follow now
The drum-tap and the bugle,
While they're for shop and plough.
Good-bye, good-bye, kind people,
And all I leave behind,
To girls that used to kiss me,
To one was never kind.
Good-bye, my girl unwilling,
I shall not vex you sore,
For I have taken the shilling
And I come home no more.
I heard the drums a-drumming,
And I ran out to see;
The soldiers and the fighting,
They mattered nought to me.
Good-bye, my girl that grieved me.
The bugles whistled, Come.
And I, -- stepped in the roadway
And marched beside the drum.
Lord, I was proud, uplifted.
I held my head so high;
And all the girls were doating
With love as we went by!
The boys who stood and jeered me
May live to three-score-ten,
While I'm cut down at morning
Among the fighting men.
But Lord, the people shouting!
The glory tasted sweet,
And the eyes of the girls all doating
As we marched down the street.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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