I studied all about Gauguin. He was a banker. He was a banker who - he used to paint on Sundays. And one day he hated himself for painting on Sundays.
quote by Anthony Quinn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr. Banker
(ronnie vanzant -- gary rossington)
Mister banker
Mister please, how much does money mean
Won't you reconsider mister
Won't you do this thing for me
Ain't got no house
Ain't got no car
All i got, lord, is my guitar
But you can have that mister banker
Won't you bury my papa for me
Oh mister banker please
Listen to how that sound
I would not be here on my knees
But hey mister banker
It means so much to me
Oh won't you reconsider mister
Won't you do this thing for me
I told you mister
I ain't got no house
Ain't got no car
I got me a 1950 les paul guitar
Won't you take it mister banker
Won't you bury my papa for me
Oh mister banker please
song performed by by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Would You Believe It?
One year ago I wished that I
A banker great might be
With a hundred million dollars
And financial majesty;
A mighty Wall Street banker
With a whopping lot of power
And an income of somewhere around
A thousand plunks per hour;
A solid Wall Street banker
With securities in sacks
And with clever men to show me
How to pay no income tax;
A wealthy Wall Street banker
Who raked in cash like hay;
I wished that just a year ago—
And I wish the same today.
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If He Were Alive Today, Mayhap, Mr. Morgan Would Sit on the Midget's Lap
"Beep-beep.
BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOBILE LOAN
You'll find a banker at Bankers Trust"
Advertisement in N.Y. Times
When comes my second childhood,
As to all men it must,
I want to be a banker
Like the banker at Bankers Trust.
I wouldn't ask to be president
Or even assistant veep,
I'd only ask for a kiddie car
And permission to go beep-beep.
The banker at Chase Manhattan,
He bids a polite Good-day;
The banker at Immigrant Savings
Cries Scusi! and Olé!
But I'd be a sleek Ferrari
Or perhaps a joggly jeep,
And scooting around at Bankers Trust,
Beep-beep, I'd go, beep-beep.
The trolley car used to say clang-clang
And the choo-choo said toot-toot,
But the beep of the banker at Bankers Trust
Is every bit as cute.
Miaow, says the cuddly kitten,
Baa, says the woolly sheep,
Oink, says the piggy-wiggy,
And the banker says beep-beep.
So I want to play at Bankers Trust
Like a hippety-hoppety bunny,
And best of all, oh best of all,
With really truly money.
Now grown-ups dear, it's nightie-night
Until my dream comes true,
And I bid you a happy boop-a-doop
And a big beep-beep adieu.
poem by Ogden Nash
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sunday Bloody Sunday
Well it was sunday bloody sunday
When they shot the people there
The cries of thirteen martyrs
Filled the free derry air
Is there any one amongst you
Dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding
When they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You claim to be majority
Well you know that its a lie
Youre really a minority
On this sweet emerald isle
When stormont bans our marches
Theyve got a lot to learn
Internment is no answer
Its those mothers turn to burn!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You anglo pigs and scotties
Sent to colonize the north
You wave your bloody union jack
And you know what its worth!
How dare you hold to ransom
A people proud and free
Keep ireland for the irish
Put the english back to sea!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Well, its always bloody sunday
In the concentration camps
Keep falls road free forever
From the bloody english hands
Repatriate to britain
All of you who call it home
Leave ireland to the irish
Not for london or for rome!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I remember when
some Sundays were spent in bed,
getting to know each
other's bodies, to please,
now, Sundays, we go to church
tanka by Abigail Greene from Fire Pearls: Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart (2006)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Penny Lane
In Penny Lane there is a barber showing photographs
Of every head he's had the pleasure to know
And all the people that come and go
Stop and say hello.
On the corner is a banker with a motorcar
The little children laugh at him behind his back
And the banker never wears a mack
In the pouring rain
song performed by by Beatles from 1
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spanky Sundays
What did you do in your spanky sundays
beneath my nothing makes sense
and my everything does
What your thoughts were wondering at
when i was thinking of the biggest frame
what did you tell her about me
when she wanted to be the one
did you think that i cared
did you think that it mattered
did you think that i never knew
about your spanky sundays
poem by Erika Conti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seven Sundays
One day
Well find the time
To spend, together
Until then, my love
If I had one wish
It wouldnt be hard to choose
Seven sundays in a row
Cause thats the day
That I spend with you
Someday soon,
You and i
Will hold each other
Once again, my love
If I had one wish
It wouldnt be hard to choose
Seven sundays in a row
Seven sundays in a row
Seven sundays in a row
Cause thats the day
That I spend with you
If I had one wish
It wouldnt be hard to choose
song performed by by Extreme
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fluffhead
Fluffhead was a man
With a horrible disease
Could not find no cure
Wont you help him if you please?
Fluff came to my door / fluff came to new york (two parts)
Askin me for change
His eyes were clear and pure
But his mind was so deranged
Fluff went to a banker
Askin for some bills
The banker said, I aint got that
But I sure got some powerful pills.
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Always Another Sunday
There is always another Sunday,
From where do Sundays come from?
Do they sell them next to strike-anywhere matches,
Can you buy a three-pack and get one free
To make a perfect month, of Sundays?
Sunday afternoon might find you sitting at table
With some people you don't know too well,
Trying to make polite conversation
While slicing up some shoe-leathery beef roast,
That has always been the hallmark of the day.
Is it the first day of the week
Or effectively, the last?
How can the week start without any work?
Because it seems to make a better ending, instead.
Will we ever run out of Sundays?
Not unless we run out of football, baseball
Basketball and soccer first; it seems evident
That Sunday is merely a cog, attached to the sports wheel,
And is born and dies each week, with the big game.
You will not find most people discussing their sins
On Sunday afternoons:
You already know what they will be talking about.
poem by Patti Masterman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Taho (english)
Tahooo! ! !
The loud voice
of the young Taho vendor
awokes the children
early in the morning
of Saturdays and Sundays.
The young Taho vendor
he always had the smile
and he always added more Taho
at the same price of two pesos
in every cup of every child.
Taho,
I like it too
it's not only delicious
but nutritious too.
But so sad,
several Saturdays
and Sundays passed by
and the voice
of the young Taho vendor
I heard no more.
Oh, yes...
the young Taho vendor,
he's now in Singapore.
How lucky he is
he could earn more
in Singapore.
Taho,
I'm afraid
I could no longer taste it
and the children....
oh, yes
now they wake up late
on Saturdays and Sundays.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wind Up
When I was young and they packed me off to school
And taught me how not to play the game,
I didnt mind if they groomed me for success,
Or if they said that I was a fool.
So I left there in the morning
With their God tucked underneath my arm --
Their half-assed smiles and the book of rules.
So I asked this God a question
And by way of firm reply,
He said -- Im not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares):
Before Im through Id like to say my prayers --
I dont believe you:
You had the whole damn thing all wrong --
Hes not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
Well you can excomunicate me on my way to sunday school
And have all the bishops harmonize these lines --
How do you dare tell me that Im my fathers son
When that was just an accident of birth.
Id rather look around me -- compose a better song
'cos thats the honest measure of my worth.
In your pomp and all your glory youre a poorer man than me,
As you lick the boots of death born out of fear.
I dont believe you:
You had the whole damn thing all wrong --
Hes not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hail All Masters Of Small Spinning Ball
In England people believe; a football player
can earn 100 000 pound a week;
apparently that is okay he is; obviously worth
100 000 pound such skill such skill;
obviously this is what such ball; skill is worth?
But a nurse serving the sick
the ill the dying is not worth
more than 30 000 pound a year
more than 30 000 pound a year
angel nurse cannot be worth?
National scandal oh dear King Lear
a banker cannot be worth
that massive massive bonus
not while nation suffers recession fear?
What skill control of financial markets
employment opportunities health care
education but but only a mere banker
what is a banker compared to a football player?
Hail Hail all masters of a small spinning ball
worth a 100 000 pound a week such skill such skill.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sabbaths, W.I.
Those villages stricken with the melancholia of Sunday,
in all of whose ocher streets one dog is sleeping
those volcanoes like ashen roses, or the incurable sore
of poverty, around whose puckered mouth thin boys are
selling yellow sulphur stone
the burnt banana leaves that used to dance
the river whose bed is made of broken bottles
the cocoa grove where a bird whose cry sounds green and
yellow and in the lights under the leaves crested with
orange flame has forgotten its flute
gommiers peeling from sunburn still wrestling to escape the sea
the dead lizard turning blue as stone
those rivers, threads of spittle, that forgot the old music
that dry, brief esplanade under the drier sea almonds
where the dry old men sat
watching a white schooner stuck in the branches
and playing draughts with the moving frigate birds
those hillsides like broken pots
those ferns that stamped their skeletons on the skin
and those roads that begin reciting their names at vespers
mention them and they will stop
those crabs that were willing to let an epoch pass
those herons like spinsters that doubted their reflections
inquiring, inquiring
those nettles that waited
those Sundays, those Sundays
those Sundays when the lights at the road's end were an occasion
those Sundays when my mother lay on her back
those Sundays when the sisters gathered like white moths
round their street lantern
and cities passed us by on the horizon
poem by Derek Walcott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One Child's Prayer
I wish my Daddy would live here
I wish he didn’t have to go away
I wish if he could only for one day
Perhaps tell me he loved me at all
I would have known a father’s mind
I asked Santa, Tooth Fairy and even God
On Sundays and all ordinary days
I wish if he could only for just one day
Pass me by just so I’d wave him goodbye
I would have seen a father’s hand
I pray to God, Tooth Fairy and even Santa
On Sundays and all ordinary days
I wish I could find the bestest prayer
For my mother and all those who talk to me
For they have given me the mostest love
Amen
060108
poem by Sylvi Sylva
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Taxes On The Farmer Feeds Us All
(traditional, adapted by ry cooder)
(d) - (a) - (e)
(a) we worked through spring and winter, through (d) summer and through (a) fall
But the mortgage worked the hardest and the (e) steadiest of us all
It (a) worked on nights and sundays, it (d) worked each holiday
(e) settled down among us and it never went (a) away
The farmer comes to town with his wagon broken down
The farmer is the man who feeds us all
If you only look and see I know you will agree
That the farmer is the man who feeds us all
(a) the farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
He buys on his credit until (e) fall
Then they (a) take him by the hand
And they (d) lead him from his land
And the (e) merchant is the man who gets it (a) all
The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
He lives on his credit until fall
With the interest rates so high
Its a wonder he dont die
But the taxes on the farmer feeds us all
Well, the banker says hes broke and the merchant stops and smoke
But they forget that its the farmer that feeds them all
It would put them to the test if the farmer took a rest
And theyd know that its the farmer that feeds them all
The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
Lives on his credit until fall
Well, his pants are wearing thin
His condition, its a sin
cause the taxes on the farmer feeds us all
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Church Going
Show me a health
That can context death,
There will be no escape
From age.
We shall all die some day,
And meet judgement day.
That is why we follow Christ,
And sleep while He rise.
In our sleep;
We dine in His house,
As we live in his heart.
Sundays!
Church going steals our day.
We are the Christians
Who worship in Jerusalem.
I was talking with a boy the other day
And to me he says:
Brother Benjamin
Why do we worship him?
And I said: We worship Him
Because there is non above Him
He sits on a throne up above,
And rule over us down below.
I worship him my dear boy;
Because I am Benjamin
And I wouldn't be
If not for Him.
They all go to church on sundays;
Because that is what the bible says,
But this is the only page they obey.
poem by Efe Benjamin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Easter Snow
Easter is a time
for change, sunshine,
but where's the sun
as I look out my,
window this easter
morning, what is this
I see, not more snow,
rain is ok, but
snow no, snow I
thought I had seen
the last of you,
but you just keep
coming, so white
is the ground as
snow flakes keep
falling and falling.
They say if it
rains easter sunday,
for seven sundays
we shall have rain.
Does this mean
that now for seven
sundays we shall have
snow falling on us?
Sun last few weeks
you have been so
kind to us, please
pay us a visit,
once again and
bring comfort to
these old bones of
mine once again.
They say we need
the moisture, so
rain wake up and
please fall on us, once again.
(4-8-07)