Who can’t stop drinking may get drunken three times a month. If he does it more often, he is guilty. To get drunken twice a month is better; once, still more praiseworthy. But not to drink at all - what could be better than this? But where could such a being be found? But if one would find it, it would be worthy of all honour.
quote by Ginghis Han
Submitted by Simona Enache
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Related quotes
The Ballad Of Ira Hayes
Gather round you people and a story I will tell
About a brave young indian you should remember well
From the tribe of pima indians, a proud and a peaceful band
They farmed the phoenix valley in arizona land
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till their white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed
Now iras folks were hungry and their farms wene crops of weeds
But when war came he volunteers and forgot, the white mans greed
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
They started up iwo jima hill, 250 men
But only 27 lived to walk back down that hill again
And when the fight was over and the old glory raised
One of the men who held it high was the indian ira hayes
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
Now ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
But he was just a pima indian, no money crops, no chance
And at home nobody cared what ira had done and the wind did the indians
Dance
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
And ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home
They let him raise the flag there and lower it like youd throw a dog a bone
He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he had fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for ira hayes
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, but his land is still as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where ira died
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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July....
July is the month where the families get the barbeque grills fired up.
July is the month where the night sky is light up with fire works.
July is the month where many families go out of town to be with family.
July is the month where many kids are dreary because it’s a month away for school.
July is the month where America gets to celebrate its independence from England.
July is the month where many people are dying of the heat of the summer.
July is my favorite month because it’s the time that I get to be myself around my family.
poem by Natasha Ligons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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By your side
I stand watching you throw away your life
you are wearing a wedding ring
yet you have lost your wife
because you look around the room
and you cant find your pride
I stand by your side.
What do you have?
you say you have nothing
but you cant see what you have lost
and you say you will stop
but the drink is all you have got
you look around
and you cant find your pride
I stand by your side.
Your face is cut from a drunken fight
and every morning is a drunken night
the poison you persist must take your sight
leaving you with not one brain cell left
the alcohol has gone to your head
a park bench has become your bed.
I stand by your side unlike your health
but I cant help unless you help yourself
what do you have? Look.
See you cant find your pride.
Understand I cant stand by your side.
poem by Daniel McCann
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Anacreontics, Drinking
THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By 's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he 's done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night:
Nothing in Nature 's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there--for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
poem by Abraham Cowley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fasting
Fasting will enable you to color yourself
With the color of God
It is a wonderful way to go to paradise
During fasting
We do not eat, drink and enjoy sex
We do not sleep and drowse
We do not tell lies
And refrain from talking too much
Because these are some of God’s qualities
During the month of Ramadan
We perform more Salat
Than any other month
Because Salat is the best worship
And it safeguards us
From doing evil things
During the month of Ramadan
We give alms and charity
To the needy ones more than ever
Because God is the Kind and Giver
During the month of Ramadan
War is forbidden for the Muslims
Because God loves peace
In the month of Ramadan
The prestigious night exists
So that we can satisfy God
And become successful
poem by Asif Andalib
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Living On A Fixed Income
I've come up with a plan,
To help budget my fixed income.
And I am sure,
Those like myself...
Who can barely exist from month to month,
Will find this to be exactly what they have been seeking.
I have decided to eliminate the last two weeks of each month.
And I awakened realizing,
How much time, money and energy I could save.
I've taken all my calendars...
And just cut away the last two weeks from each month.
Not only am I feeling better about it,
I'm already planning to take a vacation...
With the excess savings.
Who knew how simple it could be,
To make living on a fixed income...
Such a wonderful experience.
And with those weeks I've cut away?
I've decided to donate them to people complaining,
How they wish they had more time to do 'stuff'.
Not only will they have more time on their hands...
Perhaps they will stop complaining, period!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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BLACK APRIL (Genocide) Pt 2..
It is time again for the
ridiculous month it's by
the door again, the mouth
that goes down in the black
man history as the most
horroable month.Whenever it
april i fear that history won't
repeat itself.What a month, i can
remember children running from
one pillar to the other, with
fear in their eyes.
Youth are participating in the
kill of our patriot, raping our
mothers, innocent blood flow like
stream that never dry.If i should
have my way i would in same month
with the instigators no where to
be found, the innocent pay for been
fool by the egotist leaders
poem by Enyinwa Okechukwu Enyinwa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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August....
August is the month for kids it’s the last few weeks of freedom before a new school year begins.
August is the month where many parents are excited that its here cause they don’t want their kids home alone.
August is the last month before fall begins.
August is the only month that has fewer holidays than most months.
August is the month where most teens are happy because it means that it’s the last school year for most.
August is the month that I really don’t care for but I also like as well.
poem by Natasha Ligons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A May Burden
Though meadow-ways as I did tread,
The corn grew in great lustihead,
And hey! the beeches burgeoned.
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
It is the month, the jolly month,
It is the jolly month of May.
God ripe the wines and corn, I say,
And wenches for the marriage-day,
And boys to teach love's comely play.
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
It is the month, the jolly month,
It is the jolly month of May.
As I went down by lane and lea,
The daisies reddened so, pardie!
'Blushets!' I said, 'I well do see,
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
The thing ye think of in this month,
Heigho! this jolly month of May.'
As down I went by rye and oats,
The blossoms smelt of kisses; throats
Of birds turned kisses into notes;
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
The kiss it is a growing flower,
I trow, this jolly month of May.
God send a mouth to every kiss,
Seeing the blossom of this bliss
By gathering doth grow, certes!
By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay!
Thy brow-garland pushed all aslant
Tells - but I tell not, wanton May!
poem by Francis Thompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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And You...?
every month
my womanhood gets
thrown into the dustbin
at the street corner
every month
my womanhood
gets flushed out
in the water closet
month after month
i revive as a woman
i'm re-born as a woman
to nourish and nurture you
you say i need
to be a woman
to understand
what a man feels
and you?
poem by Indira Babbellapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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2010/05/16 Outlawed
Psychologically preparing for returning to
work tomorrow, making lists, Production
Sheet of everything I did during the month
Month Sheet for everything we ALL did
during the month
Work-On-Hand, a list of work to be done by
me in the coming week, another list of work
to be done by the whole Section during the
coming week, sheet upon sheet, a list of
lists to be listed
By the time we are finished listing I will have
done so much soul-searching, seeking out
shortcomings in my conscience, I shall know
I am a criminal, guilty for being born, even more
guilty for living on
Guilty for breathing and dreaming of a better world
where freedom and joy, love and acceptance abound
guilty for being a flawed human being who should be
kept in the straightjacket of legislation, laws and
regulations - guilty for being
A specimen of the species homo erectus - bureaucracy
has been designed to strangle all humanity out of me -
but I learnt to love breathing because breathing
has been outlawed...
*
Let’s kill the world, let’s all die out, it’s my highest dream
to become extinct, let’s kill the world, let’s all die out,
my highest vision is one of extinction...
poem by Margaret Alice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Picassos Last Words
The grand old painter died last night
His paintings on the wall
Before he went he bade us well
And said goodnight to us all.
Drink to me, drink to my health
You know I cant drink any more
Drink to me, drink to my health
You know I cant drink any more
3 oclock in the morning
Im getting ready for bed
It came without a warning
But Ill be waiting for you baby
Ill be waiting for you there
So drink to me drink to my health
You know I cant drink any more
Drink to me drink to my health
You know I cant drink any more
French interlude
Temp change
Jet... drink to me
Drunken chorus
French (tempo) drink to me... ho hey ho
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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O What Shall We Do With These Drunken Men?
1
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
Last night
I picked him up
from outside the pub
where he'd been drinking
with his mates
And in the car
almost near our home
he says: I love you
And I say to him:
Is that you talking
or the beer?
And he says
like lightning:
It's me talking.
I'm talking to my beer.
2
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
I locked him in the car
doused him with effluent water
let him sleep there
till he turns sober
But it's 11am now and hot
and sober or not,
he's still asleep
in the car
and when I try and wake him up
he's still mumbling about love and beer
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
Maybe I should dunk him over a hill
car and all
till he turns mature, till he's sober
poem by Raj Arumugam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My father was predisposed to drunken rages. I would hide under the bed. My sister and I were talking just the other day about the terror a drunken man in a rage can create in a child.
quote by Antonio Villaraigosa
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The pity of pities
In a year,
You brought me
Ten years younger.
In a month,
You sent me
Ten years older.
In a year,
You exuded my
Hormones to that of a lad.
In a month,
You defused it
Far less to one older than me.
In a year,
You kindled me
To soar to the peak.
In a month,
You bundled me
To plummet to the ditch.
But in a year,
You activated in me
The finest faculty.
It is in a month
That you motivated
It to result in fruiting.
In a month of setting,
Impulses suffered a lot.
Intellect reaped a lot.
Stress breeds in one
The best
Though in the process,
It upsets
Him, the pity of pities.
Can you put me back
To saddle high in the track?
13.06.99
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of Ira Hayes
(peter lafarge)
Gather round me people and a story I will tell
bout a brave young indian lad, you should remember well,
From a tribe of pima indians, a proud and peaceful band
Who farmed the phoenix valley out in arizona land.
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till the white man stole the water rights and the running water hushed.
Iras folks was hungry, their fields grew thick with weeds,
But when war came ira volunteered and forgot the white mans greed.
Call him drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking indian or marine who went to war.
Well, they battled up iwo jima hill, two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again.
And after the fight was over and old glory proudly raised,
Among the men who held her high was an indian, ira hayes.
Call him drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking indian or marine who went to war.
Well, ira hayes returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land,
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand.
But hes just a pima indian, no food, no friend, no chance,
And nobody cared what ira did and when do the indians dance.
Well, ira took to drinking hard, jail often was his home,
They used to let him raise the flag there and lower it just like youd throw a dog a bone.
And ira died drunk early one morning all alone in the land hed fought to save.
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for ira hayes.
Call him drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking indian or marine who went to war.
Yeah, call him drunken ira hayes, but his land is till as dry
And his ghost, well, thats lying thirsty in the ditch where ira died.
Call him drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking indian or marine who went to war.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One month Anniversary (1)
In months time
Time flew by
So fast, so quick
So many memories already
From first kiss in the Drive way
To First date at TGI's
To my first photo booth pictures
To Caving at Devils den
To already having many developed pictures
To being with a great person for one months time
Memories fly, but time is cherished
Having these memories with you means everything
Knowing you're there to tell me Morning
Knowing you're there to tell me Night
Everything we do makes me smile
And makes me realize everythings worthwhile
So here's to a month
A month so great
A month with no debate
A month with no regrets
I'm hope you've enjoyed it as much as i have
I hope for another month and more
Happy One month anniversary
poem by Tanner Gallman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ballad Of Ira Hayes
(Peter LaFarge)
Gather round me people and a story I will tell
?Bout a brave young Indian lad, you should remember well,
From a tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and peaceful band
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley out in Arizona land.
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till the white man stole the water rights and the running water hushed.
Ira's folks was hungry, their fields grew thick with weeds,
But when war came Ira volunteered and forgot the white man's greed.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
Well, they battled up Iwo Jima Hill, two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again.
And after the fight was over and Old Glory proudly raised,
Among the men who held her high was an Indian, Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
Well, Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land,
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand.
But he's just a Pima Indian, no food, no friend, no chance,
And nobody cared what Ira did and when do the Indians dance.
Well, Ira took to drinking hard, jail often was his home,
They used to let him raise the flag there and lower it just like you'd throw a dog a bone.
And Ira died drunk early one morning all alone in the land he'd fought to save.
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war.
Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his lan
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Idle in June
She dares not let the world hear her speak,
She's getting thin and looking meek,
A grey hair is splitting in her widows peak
She lays idle in the month of June.
Her hands are cracked and stained from mud,
although she bathes in lathered suds
There's a little of me inside her blood
She lays idle in the month of June
She carries child at her old age,
She's stuck inside her fleshy cage,
Her father birthed her insidious rage
She lays idle in the month of June.
They locked her in a cell up high,
The crime of seeking suicide
Some women they are born only to die,
She lays idle in the month of June.
One day, I know, I'll see her soon,
How I loathe the month of June,
We'll met again come the next new moon,
I won't forget her, idle in the month of June.
poem by H.J. Shreeve
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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