Related quotes: I'm going out and get...

Riot Act, April 29, 1992

I'm going out and get something.
I don't know what.
I don't care.
Whatever's out there, I'm going to get it.
Look in those shop windows at boxes
and boxes of Reeboks and Nikes
to make me fly through the air
like Michael Jordan
like Magic.
While I'm up there, I see Spike Lee.
Looks like he's flying too
straight through the glass
that separates me
from the virtual reality
I watch everyday on TV.
I know the difference between
what it is and what it isn't.
Just because I can't touch it
doesn't mean it isn't real.
All I have to do is smash the screen,
reach in and take what I want.
Break out of prison.
South Central homey's newly risen
from the night of living dead,
but this time he lives,
he gets to give the zombies
a taste of their own medicine.
Open wide and let me in,
or else I'll set your world on fire,
but you pretend that you don't hear.
You haven't heard the word is coming down
like the hammer of the gun
of this black son, locked out of this big house,
while massa looks out the window and sees only smoke.
Massa doesn't see anything else,
not because he can't,
but because he won't.
He'd rather hear me talking about mo' money,
mo' honeys and gold chains
and see me carrying my favorite things
from looted stores
than admit that underneath my Raider's cap,
the aftermath is staring back
unblinking through the camera's lens,
courtesy of CNN,
my arms loaded with boxes of shoes
that I will sell at the swap meet
to make a few cents on the declining dollar.
And if I destroy myself
and my neighborhood
"ain't nobody's business, if I do,"
but the police are knocking hard
at my door
and before I can open it,
they break it down
and drag me in the yard.
They take me in to be processed and charged,
to await trial,
while Americans forget
the day the wealth finally trickled down
to the rest of us.

poem by Ai Ogawa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Related quotes

Nobody Lives Here Anymore

scarecrow in the yard,
eviction notice on the door.
the walls stripped bare
smell of ham and beans,
the sounds of laughter

and crying trapped
in the cobwebbed corners.
across the street a homosexual
man peeks through the curtains,
his breath of amaretto and nuts...

watching the old man and woman
pack the remnants of a life
into a car, nowhere to go.
setting down his cup he walks
out the door, across the street....

starts carrying boxes without a word.
till all is loaded that can be loaded,
and the rest left in a pile down
at the street, to be carried off....
then hugs, a tear, a few kind words....

almost family, just neighbors, friends...
the old couple drives away without
looking back... the neighbor staring
at the empty boxes on the porch...
nobody lives here anymore!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Virtual World

Written by ricky & kim wilde
Images projected on a screen
Step into an artificial dream
Programme all the things you want to feel
Make a world where fantasies are real
Stand back and let the future unfurl
Well all be living in a virtual world
In a virtual world
Ah-ah, in a virtual world
Journey far beyond the atmosphere
Watch the world behind you disappear
Float inside a microscopic cell
Is this dream a heaven or a hell?
Stand back and watch the future unfurl
Well all be living in a virtual world
In a virtual world
Ah-ah, in a virtual world
In the name of progress science stands
Pushing all the frontiers known to man
When they go too far the frontiers break
And were left to deal with their mistakes
Stand back and watch the future unfurl
Well all be living in a virtual world
In a virtual world
Ah-ah, in a virtual world
Images projected on a screen
Step into an artificial dream
Programme all the things you want to feel
Make a world where fantasies are real
In the name of progress science stands
Pushing all the frontiers known to man
When they go too far the frontiers break
And were left to deal with their mistakes
Stand back and watch the future unfurl
Well all be living in a virtual world
Stand back and watch the future unfurl
Well all be living in a virtual world
In a virtual world
Ah-ah, in a virtual world
Ah-ah, (ah-ah) in a virtual world
Ah-ah, in a virtual world
Ah-ah

song performed by by Kim Wilde
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Virtual World (12" Extended Mix)

song performed by by Kim Wilde
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Why the Jackass Laughs

The Boastful Crow and the Laughing Jack
Were telling tales of the outer back:
"I've just been travelling far and wide,
At the back of Bourke and the Queensland side;
There isn't a bird in the bush can go
As far as me," said the old black crow.
"There isn't a bird in the bush can fly
A course as straight or a course as high.
Higher than human eyesight goes.

There's sometimes clouds -- but there's always crows,
Drifting along for a scent of blood
Or a smell of smoke or a sign of flood.
For never a bird or a beast has been
With a sight as strong or a scent as keen.
At fires and floods I'm the first about,
For then the lizards and mice run out:
And I make my swoop -- and that's all they know --
I'm a whale on mice," said the Boastful Crow.

The Bee-birds over the homestead flew
And told each other the long day through
"The cold has come, we must take the track."
"Now, I'll make you a bet," said the Laughing Jack,
"Of a hundred mice, that you dare not go
With the little Bee-birds, by Boastful Crow."

Said the Boastful Crow, "I could take my ease
And fly with little green birds like these.
If they went flat out and they did their best
I could have a smoke and could take a rest."
And he asked of the Bee-birds circling round:
"Now, where do you spike-tails think you're bound?"
"We leave tonight, and out present plan
is to go straight on till we reach Japan.

"Every year, on the self-same day,
We call our children and start away,
Twittering, travelling day and night,
Over the ocean we take our flight;
And we rest a day on some lonely isles
Or we beg a ride for a hundred miles
On a steamer's deck,* and away we go:
We hope you'll come with us, Mister Crow."

But the old black crow was extremely sad.
Said he: "I reckon you're raving mad
To talk of travelling night and day,
And how in the world do you find your way?"
And the Bee-birds answered him, "If you please,
That's one of our own great mysteries".

Now these things chanced in the long ago
And explain the fact, which no doubt you know,
That every jackass high and low
Will always laugh when he sees a crow.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Thru These Walls

I can hear thru these walls
I can hear it when theyre foolin around
I can hear thru these walls
And I hear evry sign, evry sound
I can hear thru these walls
In the dark with the shades pulled down
Evry word that they say
Evry noise they make feels its coming my way
My favrite moment
Putting the glass up next to the wall
Imagination
Tho I see nothing, I hear it all
Putting my sign up
Do not disturb me, speak or shout, inside out
Oh mind my clothes, theyre all laid out
I can see thru my windows
I can see the girls and the boys
I can see thru my windows
And I can imagine the noise
I can see thru my windows
I can see them playing with toys
Oh I hope it wont end
If I promise not to touch, just be a friend
Life is so lonely
I dont get high off just being me
I like pretending
Wanting to touch them, wanting to see
Its only normal
Creeping behind you, now dont shout, cos its alright
They keep the windows locked and the door shut tight
Oo Im feeling like Im locked in a cage
No way in, no way out, and it gets so lonely
Am I really asking a lot
Just to reach out and touch somebody
cos when I look thru my windows or open my door
I can feel it all around me
I can hear thru these walls
I can hear it when theyre foolin around
I can hear thru these walls
And I hear evry sight, evry sound
I can hear thru these walls
In the dark with the shades pulled down
Evry word that they say
Evry noise they make feels its coming my way
Ah yeah...

song performed by by Phil Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Intimacy

I hear people say, "I love my iPhone, "
Or, "I love drinking a Starbucks coffee."
Sometimes: "I love my Versace cologne, "
And also: "I love having this money."
I hear people say, "I love my Walmart, "
Or, "I love the drive-thru at Taco Bell."
"I love my TV. It's state of the art."
"I love the shoes that Nike has to sell."
I hear this: "I love American Idol, "
And, "I love a nice, cold Budweiser."
"I love medicines such as Demerol."
And, "I love my internet provider."
Yet, one thing I don't hear is, "I love you."
Saying that is too intimate to do.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Boxes

On our first date he told me of
the box,
‘Pandora's Box',
would I have him open it or not?

Would I let him go that far?
Should we wait a while?
Would I let him lift the lid?
This kind of made me smile.

Boxes were his weapons
for such a life he'd led,
and to frighten little souls like mine
he'd wrapped a box to send.

What would I find within it,
what would its inners be?
Would I find some demons
or would I find a key?

So I thought on this a moment
and then I answered thus,
'If I asked you that question
would you hesitate or trust? '

With this he shrugged his shoulders,
he grinned and winked his eye.
'I'm not frightened of mere boxes
I dare you, do or die! '

So I told him 'Open it,
let its dust spill out.
for whatever lay beneath its lid
would edify, no doubt."

So he spilled out all its secrets
of pranks and devilry,
of worldliness and foolishness
like an artist's gallery.

I listened with wide eyes
to this colourful display
until the torrent ceased
and he put the box away.

Most people have their boxes
some large some very small
but the saddest people in the world
don't have a box at all.

poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I'm Gonna Be Somebody

Bobby played his guitar on the harder side of town
Where it's hard for the poor boy to find the money
He had dedication, he had the heart and soul
Somehow knew he was born to play
People said "Get a real job, support your family
'Cause there's no future in the road you're taking"
He never said a word, the dreamer just kept on
But late at night you could hear him say
He said
"I'm gonna be somebody
One of these days I'm gonna break these chains
I'm gonna be somebody someday
You could bet your hard earned dollar I will
The road was a struggle, took him ten years to the top
Now he's #1 on the stage and the radio
Still he can't believe how they come from miles around
When it only seems like yesterday he was sayin'
"I'm gonna be somebody
One of these days I'm fonna break these chains
I'm gonna be somebody someday
You could bet your hard earned dollar I will"
Bobby played his hometown one full moon August night
When he heard a voice in the front row singin'
It was a sandy- haired Rebel boy with the same old hungry eyes
Looked up at Bobby and said
"I'm gonna be somebody
One of these days I'm gonna break these chains
I'm gonna be somebody someday
You could bet your hard earned dollar I will"
Mmmmmm
"I'm gonna be somebody
One of these days I'm gonna break these chains
I'm gonna be somebody
You could bet your hard earned dollar I will"
Oh, yes I will
You could bet your hard earned dollar
I will

song performed by by Travis Tritt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

A Song For Freedom

Come all ye bondmen far and near,
Let's put a song in massa's ear,
It is a song for our poor race,
Who're whipped and trampled with disgrace.

Chorus.
My old massa tells me O
This is a land of freedom O;
Let's look about and see if't is so,
Just as massa tells me O.

He tells us of that glorious one,
I think his name was Washington,
How he did fight for liberty,
To save a threepence tax on tea.

Chorus.
My old massa, &c.

And then he tells us that there was
A Constitution, with this clause,
That all men equal were created,
How often have we heard it stated.

Chorus.
My old massa, &c.

But now we look about and see,
That we poor blacks are not so free;
We 're whipped and thrashed about like fools,
And have no chance at common schools.

Chorus.
Still, my old massa, &c.

They take our wives, insult and mock,
And sell our children on the block,
Then choke us if we say a word,
And say that 'niggers' shan't be heard.

Chorus.
Still, my old massa, &c.

Our preachers, too, with whip and cord,
Command obedience in the Lord;
They say they learn it from the book,
But for ourselves we dare not look.

Chorus.
Still, my old massa tells me O,
This is a
Christian
country O, &c.

There is a country far away,
Friend Hopper says 't is Canada,
And if we reach Victoria's shore,
He says that we are slaves no more.

Chorus.
Now hasten all bondmen, let us go
And leave this Christian country O;
Haste to the land of the British Queen,
Where whips for negroes are not seen.

Now if we go, we must take the night-
We're sure to die if we come in sight-
The blood-hounds will be on our track,
And wo to us if they fetch us back.

Chorus.
Now haste all bondmen, let us go,
And leave this
Christian
country O;
God help us to Victoria's shore,
Where we are free and slaves no more.

poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

From the Diary of a Mimes

At my grandmothers house, you will see a hundred years of family portraits. We are a family of mimes. The portraits are of mimes.
You may ask why would someone wish to be a mime? For it is a limited existence beings that a mime s a simile of a single frame photograph. Look at the pictures at grandmothers house, do you feel the pain? This is my pain.
Becoming a mime.
I was six or seven years old. Grandmother and I were sitting in her living room, I had slept over at her house for a weekend while mom, dad and little brother tend to other things. Grandmother was in an odd mood today. She looked at her pictures and smiled some. And cried a little." I think its time you wore your mime face." She said. Today you will learn how to become a mime." So I said" Yes madman she proceeded to make up my face.
As she put on my makeup she started to cry. She cried for a long time. I was a little girl I started crying as well. I could not watch my grandmother cry without shedding tears of my own. So we sat and cried.
'Why are we crying' I asked? 'Well dear, sometimes life deals you a hard enough blow that even a mime will cry." I said 'Ok.'I was soon to find out what she meant. This is the day I learned a safe place for a heart to be. I learned that a person could freeze emotions and save them for future use. Yes place them in a jar, to be opened at an appropriate time. For that is what I do. You see I write a sad story, open a jar of tears and cry for a minute.
So after a good cry, grandmother took my hand and led me to the foyer wondered why I had to wear my mime face. Well grandmother had hers on, so I thought it must be a family thing, and I did not question. We sat under the foyer, was hot.New Orleans is a hot place at certain times of the year. There was no breeze, was still as could be. Nothing moved, except perhaps the webs a few lucky spiders, the ones who had prey to close in on.
'God bless mother nature, child. Its infinite wisdom, allows all creatures sustenance 'Uhh grandmother, that is a spider. Kill it, mom does.''No." She says, this is his house. If he were in mine, then I would kill him, but he lives here and kills insects.'
'You say he" I asked." How do you know it is a male spider? " She sighs." I do not know.' So I ask." Then why do you say it is a male? " It is taken for granted that any unknown sex is referred to as he. God is male." I answer" God could be a woman. I do not think anyone knows Gods sex grandmother. The world would be better if God was a female.''Perhaps so child." She answers, " Perhaps so.'
'Your father used to say that when he was your age. Always a philosophy with him." And her eye tiered up again. But I saw her turn to ice of a sudden. The tears dried. Then a long white car pulled up in the driveway, grandmother took my hand and we walked to the car. A man in a grey uniform opened the door and we sat inside. 'I will remember every detail of this day. For this is where my life changed.'
The car drove us to a big fancy building, it was full of mimes dressed in black. Even as a child I realized that something was wrong, so many mimes, all crying and made up in misery faces. I wondered why. They all parted as grandmother and I entered the building.
It was an odd place. Sad sounding music reminded me of harmonies of sorrow, organs and moans and tears. There were 3 pretty boxes in the center of the room. People were all around, most of them mimes, most were crying. 'Grand mother, what is in the boxes? 'I asked." Why do all the mimes look into them and cry? ''Never mind my child. Just be a mime.'
'Well if my daddy was here he would pick me up and I could see what was in the boxes." My grandmother looked down at me and started to cry, and the tears flowed." Brace yourself girl." She said. Then she picked me up. Eagerly I looked over the side of the box. In it was the reason I became a mime. I saw my fathers body made up to be a mime laying with his hands together as if he were praying. My brother and mother the same in other boxes. I knew they had passed away.
It was hard on a little girl, to have it etched into her mind.I kicked and screamed till grandmother set me on my feet. I ran out of the room and never spoke another word until this day.

I do not like this one much.

poem by Mike poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Massa’s in de Cold Ground

ROUND de meadows am a-ringing
De darkeys’ mournful song,
While de mocking-bird am singing,
Happy as de day am long.
Where de ivy am a-creeping,
O’er de grassy mound,
Dere old massa am a-sleeping,
Sleeping in de cold, cold ground.

Chorus:

Down in de corn-field
Hear dat mournful sound:
All de darkeys am a-weeping,—
Massa’s in de cold, cold ground.

When de autumn leaves were falling,
When de days were cold,
’T was hard to hear old massa calling,
Cayse he was so weak and old.
Now de orange tree am blooming
On de sandy shore,
Now de summer days am coming,—
Massa nebber calls no more. (Chorus)

Massa make de darkeys love him,
Cayse he was so kind;
Now dey sadly weep above him,
Mourning cayse he leave dem behind.
I cannot work before to-morrow,
Cayse de tear-drop flow;
I try to drive away my sorrow,
Pickin’ on de old banjo. (Chorus)

poem by Stephen C. Foster
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Lost Love, Never Found

So many times I have been asked,
"Are you alone on this moonlit night?
Do you live in solitude, never to open your eyes to the world?
Do you know of all those alive
Searching everyday for somebody to love and for
Somebody with whom to fall in love with? "
Someone to give you flowers,
To dine with or to hold in one's arms?
Are you alone on a rainy night, or
By yourself on a lovely spring day,
Taking each step you take in solitude,
With nobody to share your thoughts with-
How many years have you lived alone
With nobody to open your heart up to? "
These are the words and questions of many-
Also asking me how many times I have loved and lost-or
Have you loved and lost before in
Any given moment in time?
All I can do is to respond and say to that world out there continuously wondering is that
I am the queen of my own world; my eyes open to my own thoughts,
Alone in the world of my own imaginings and
Rejoicing every day and night to be
Alone in my own special castle- loving myself and
Being my own best and closest friend-
Solitude is a safe and pleasurable haven for me-
I am alone but never lonely- and if one is to ask me
"Have you ever been in love before and lost?
I can only respond- "I have never lost a love before, because in your eyes,
A love I have never found-but I have learned to be a friend and a loving companion to myself- I trust myself, value my talents and dance, sing and laugh everyday
With myself in solitude- I suppose I have loved before and do love now, as
I have become my own best and closest friend-
I have never loved and lost- because I adore my spirit for some time now and
I haven't had to search further than my own home and yard to find myself, and
It hasn't taken much time for me to come to the realization that
I can find flowers in my own back yard, and
Myself, I shall never lose…

poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Fitzroy Blacksmith

Under the spreading deficit,
The Fitzroy Smithy stands;
The smith, a spendthrift man is he,
With too much on his hands;
But the muscles of his brawny jaw
Are strong as iron bands.
Pay out, pay put, from morn till night,
You can hear the sovereigns go;
Or you'll hear him singing "Old Folks at Home",
In a deep bass voice and slow,
Like a bullfrog down in the village well
When the evening sun is low.

The Australian going "home" for loans
Looks in at the open door;
He loves to see the imported plant,
And to hear the furnace roar,
And to watch the private firms smash up
Like chaff on the threshing-floor.

Toiling, rejoicing, borrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some scheme begun
That never sees its close.
Something unpaid for, someone done,
Has earned a night's repose.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

House Made Of Stone

the cell door slams shut!
staring through the barred window,
he can make out a lone crow
flying just over the treetops....

can feel the sunlight turning
the wheel, as seasons change.
can hear the big trucks
out on the interstate...

lying back on his bunk,
he closes his eyes....
can feel his spirit leaving
his beaten body behind....

turning back time, and years,
and most of all, choices....
back before the cars, the whores,
the dope, the money, and the guns....

he can see his mother
washing clothes in the sink.
can taste the beans, the cornbread,
can hear her reading her Bible....

can see the hope drenched walls
that poverty closed them in with....
and the keys... the books, the faith,
the code of living and giving....

choices... shadows and fire,
roaches on the floor....
dignity or power; and those eyes
that followed every move he made...

lone crow flying into the distance,
smaller and smaller, almost gone.
the part of him so real he'd forgotten,
lost to the hammer and chains....

and a house made of stone!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Only Within Their Reach

Many living inside their boxes,
Peek.
Not realizing dust collects,
Under their feet.
Or there is fresh air outside,
To breathe.
Although they believe,
The sky above them...
Is only within their reach.

And they from within their boxes...
Have the right to dictate,
How high others should fly...
At what height and pace.
And which dreams those they choose,
Are approved to seek.
As well as the ones they can also deny.

Although they secretly wish,
Their insecurities would free them...
To experience such ambitions.
But fearing many living inside their boxes,
Peek.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Not to Keep

They sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying... And she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hidden ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight,
Living. They gave him back to her alive
How else? They are not known to send the dead
And not disfigured visibly. His face?
His hands? She had to look, and ask,
"What was it, dear?" And she had given all
And still she had all they had they the lucky!
Wasn’t she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissible ease.
She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"

"Enough,"
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest, and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again." The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.

poem by Robert Frost
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Window

I was staring out the window
The whole time he was talking to me
It was a filthy pane of glass
I couldn't get a clear view
As he went on and on
It wasn't the outside world I could see
Just the filthy pane that I was looking through
So I had to break the window
It just had to be
Better that I break the window
Than him or her or me
I was never focused on just one thing
My eyes got fixed when my mind got soft
It may looked like I'm concentrated on a very clear view
But I'm as good as asleep
I bet you didn't know
It takes a lot of it away if you do
So I had to break the window
It just had to be
Better that I break the window
Than him or her or me
So I had to break the window
It just had to be
Better that I break the window
Than him or her or me
Because the fact in fact
Whatevers in front of me is covering my view
So I can't see what I'm seeing in fact
I only see what I'm looking through
I had to break the window
It just had to be it was in my way
Better that I break the window
Then forget what I had to say
So again I've done the right thing
I was never worried about that
The answer's always been in clear view
But even when the window's clean
I still can't see for the fact
That when it's clean it's so clear
I cant tell what I'm looking through
So I had to break the window
It just had to be
Better that I break the window
Than him or her or me
I had to break the window
It just had to be it was in my way
Better that I break the window
Then forget what I had to say
I had to break the window
It was in my way
Better that I break a window
Then forget what I had to say
Or miss what I should see
Or breaking him or her or me

song performed by by Fiona Apple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Submission (in answer to Don Mattera)

I have seen a white old man and woman
turned onto the street,
living in cardboard boxes
with their small white dog
in the new disastrous improved South Africa,

I have seen white people taking their own lives
when black mine owners robbed them of salaries
and there was no job to get,
no living to be made
and they did this
instead of starting to beg.

I have seen white men and women
with university degrees
leaving the country
in numbers that are more than a million
to find a place to have a life
somewhere else in a foreign country,

I have waited for more than a hour queuing
at a local bank to make a cash deposit,
as a payment to someone
and the way that things are going,
with the black economic empowerment
and people not up to doing a simple job,
soon all of private industry
will be falling apart
as the government departments are doing.

I have noticed friends and family members
who were robbed, hijacked in their vehicles,
raped, tortured and killed
while the South African Police
did their very best to make a arrest
and like in all other things
are not up to it.

I know people who live in despair,
who are totally without hope
while the country’s borders
are flung wide open
to the rest of Africa
to first have a chance at a job
and their degrees and experience
in the face of this means nothing

but not one does bend
under the black heel to submission,
at the mercy of God
their lives go on…

[Reference: “Submission” by Don Mattera.]

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

What If I Came Knocking

What if I came knocking
On your front door some night?
Would you open the window
And drop me down the key?
What if I came knocking
On your bedpost that same night?
Would you open up your heart
Or try to get the best of me?
What if I came knocking
On your brain the next day
And ask for your truth and your love and your honesty?
Would you build up your big walls
And try to hide behind that smile
Or would you try to pull the wool right over me?
So what if I came knocking?
So what if I came knocking?
So what if I came kicking
And it scared you a little bit
And I came on strong
Would you think
That theres something wrong with me?
Or could it be your fears
Of trying something real
Or just afraid to touch
A guy like me?
What if I came knocking?
What if I came knocking?
What if I came knocking
On your front door some night? ahh
So lets just say it worked out
Like a storybook dream
And we lived happily ever after
Fa la la la
But what if I came crying
After just a few weeks
And said I misread my heart
This is not really meant to be? yeah
So if you hear some knocking
On your window tonight
You can bet that its probably me
But let it be known
That were just a pair of tumbling dice
And the outcome of these crap shoots
Is hard to see
So what if I came knocking?
So what if I came knocking?
So what if I came knocking
On your front door tonight? ahh
So what if I came knocking?
Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knocking
Kick, kick, kick
What if I came knocking
On your front porch tonight, tonight?

song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant

—he's a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar

he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business

first time I met him, he said,
"hey! ya gonna make a
killin'?"

"maybe," I answered.

next meeting it was:
"hey, Ramrod! what's
happening?"

"very little," I told
him.

next time I had my girlfriend with me
and he just
grinned.

next time I was
alone.

"hey," he asked, "where's the young
chick?"

"I left her at home...."

"Bullshit! I'll bet she dumped
you!"

and the next time
he really leaned into the car:

"what's a guy like you doing driving a
BMW! I'll bet you inherited your
money, you didn't get this car with your
brains!"

"how'd you guess?" I
answered.

that was some weeks ago.
I haven't seen him lately.
feIlow like that, chances are he just moved on
to better
things.

poem by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

En.Citatepedia®.ro