The Fountain Refilled
Of Hans Pietro Shanahan
(Who was a most ingenious man)
The Muse of History records
That he'd get drunk as twenty lords.
He'd get so truly drunk that men
Stood by to marvel at him when
His slow advance along the street
Was but a vain cycloidal feat.
And when 'twas fated that he fall
With a wide geographical sprawl,
They signified assent by sounds
Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds.
And yet this Mr. Shanahan
(Who was a most ingenious man)
Cast not on wine his thirsty eyes
When it was red or otherwise.
All malt, or spirituous, tope
He loathed as cats dissent from soap;
And cider, if it touched his lip,
Evoked a groan at every sip.
But still, as heretofore explained,
He not infrequently was grained.
(I'm not of those who call it 'corned.'
Coarse speech I've always duly scorned.)
Though truth to say, and that's but right,
Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!)
Was what had put him in the mud,
The only kind he used was blood!
Alas, that an immortal soul
Addicted to the flowing bowl,
The emptied flagon should again
Replenish from a neighbor's vein.
But, Mr. Shanahan was so
Constructed, and his taste that low.
Nor more deplorable was he
In kind of thirst than in degree;
For sometimes fifty souls would pay
The debt of nature in a day
To free him from the shame and pain
Of dread Sobriety's misreign.
His native land, proud of its sense
Of his unique inabstinence,
Abated something of its pride
At thought of his unfilled inside.
And some the boldness had to say
'Twere well if he were called away
To slake his thirst forevermore
In oceans of celestial gore.
But Hans Pietro Shanahan
(Who was a most ingenious man)
Knew that his thirst was mortal; so
Remained unsainted here below
Unsainted and unsaintly, for
He neither went to glory nor
To abdicate his power deigned
Where, under Providence, he reigned,
But kept his Boss's power accurst
To serve his wild uncommon thirst.
Which now had grown so truly great
It was a drain upon the State.
Soon, soon there came a time, alas!
When he turned down an empty glass
All practicable means were vain
His special wassail to obtain.
In vain poor Decimation tried
To furnish forth the needful tide;
And Civil War as vainly shed
Her niggard offering of red.
Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased
Until he wished himself deceased,
Invoked the firearm and the knife,
But could not die to save his life!
He was so dry his own veins made
No answer to the seeking blade;
So parched that when he would have passed
Away he could not breathe his last.
'Twas then, when almost in despair,
(Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair)
He saw as in a dream a way
To wet afresh his mortal clay.
Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan
(Who was a most ingenious man)
Saw freedom, and with joy and pride
'Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)' cried.
Straight to the Aldermen went he,
With many a 'pull' and many a fee,
And many a most corrupt 'combine'
(The Press for twenty cents a line
Held out and fought him-O, God, bless
Forevermore the holy Press!)
Till he had franchises complete
For trolley lines on every street!
The cars were builded and, they say,
Were run on rails laid every way
Rhomboidal roads, and circular,
And oval-everywhere a car
Square, dodecagonal (in great
Esteem the shape called Figure 8)
And many other kinds of shapes
As various as tails of apes.
No other group of men's abodes
E'er had such odd electric roads,
That winding in and winding out,
Began and ended all about.
No city had, unless in Mars,
That city's wealth of trolley cars.
They ran by day, they flew by night,
And O, the sorry, sorry sight!
And Hans Pietro Shanahan
(Who was a most ingenious man)
Incessantly, the Muse records,
Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
Little Hans
Lead vocal: graham dye
Little hans, little hans, what do you see?
The worlds is full of big surprises
Little hans, little hans, what can they be?
They come in many shapes and sizes
Little boys always love to play
But something is not quite right
Little hans wont come out today
Hes scared of a horse that might bite
Little hans, little hans, what can it be?
Your thoughts are filled with such confusion
Little hans, little hans when will you see?
Youre barking up the wrong conclusion
Professor man asks him oh so nicely
Why will you not come out?
Little hans tells him most politely
What he is thinking about
A ride in a tram, a lily white lamb, raspberry jam
Little hans, little hans, where will you go?
The world is full of compromises
Little hans, little hans, how will you know?
The come in many strange disguises
Professor man shakes his head and wonders
How will he work it out?
Little hans tells him quite precisely
What hes been dreaming about
I jump in the bath, I make myself laugh, I ride a giraffe
Little hans, little hans, I found a clue
I think Ive made the right connection
Little hans, little hans, all I can do
Is give a common sense injection
Little boys grow up just like daddy
Professor man has no doubt
Little hans goes to sleep and wonders
What he was talking about
song performed by by Alan Parsons Project
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dieu A Fait La Femme
Geometry shows us God’s great fondness for lines
In the gazelles, birds and butterflies as well.
Everywhere we search in the midst of His designs,
Even in the sea we find many an animal in his shell.
Not stopping His ingenious design with mere creatures,
Or objects He fondly blesses with roundness,
That appear most often among celestial features,
He drew woman’s figure most curvy and boundless.
The womanly figures are of an exquisite selection,
Running the perfect outline from legs to hair,
Expressing haunting beauty with divine perfection,
And designed to please the heart willing to dare.
With circular lines it seems that He began
Depicting the face and hair with round design.
He moves then to the bust with a span,
And with symmetry amazes with the circular line.
Now on to the waist with its hyperbolic form,
He shapes with alluring symbolic notion.
Now cycling to legs God departs the norm,
And now straight lines obtain His promotion.
All of these sacred shapes and borders,
God draws from the world’s great sweep.
He conveys them from land’s four corners,
Cross mountains high and valleys deep.
God is the master of geometric arts;
He is the architect of spherical dreams.
And He fashions woman’s celestial parts
From the lines on landscape’s four extremes.
Now all of this is just to make very clear
My prayer that you be my spherical dream,
With starlight in your flowing hair,
Your glory will fuel my modest esteem.
poem by Albert Price
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What Does It Mean
It does not know it glitters
It does not know it flies
It does not know it is this not that.
And, more and more often, agape,
With my Gauloise dying out,
Over a glass of red wine,
I muse on the meaning of being this not that.
Just as long ago, when I was twenty,
But then there was a hope I would be everything,
Perhaps even a butterfly or a thrush, by magic.
Now I see dusty district roads
And a town where the postmaster gets drunk every day
Melancholy with remaining identical to himself.
If only the stars contained me.
If only everything kept happening in such a way
That the so-called world opposed the so-called flesh.
Were I at least not contradictory. Alas.
poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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Don't Drink
Don't drink, boys, don't!
There is nothing of happiness, pleasure, or cheer,
In brandy, in whiskey, in rum, ale, or beer.
If they cheer you when drunk, you are certain to pay
In headaches and crossness the following day.
Don't drink, boys, don't!
Boys, let it alone!
Turn your back on your deadliest enemy-Drink!
An assassin disguised; nor for one moment think,
As some rashly say, that
true
women admire
The man who can boast that he's playing with fire.
Boys, let it alone!
No, boys, don't drink!
If the habit's begun, stop now! stop to-day!
Ere the spirit of thirst leads you on and away
Into vice, shame, and drunkenness. This is the goal,
Where the spirit of thirst leads the slave of the bowl.
No, boys,
don't
drink!
Boys, touch not, nor taste!
Don't think you can stop at the social 'First Glass.'
Too many have boasted that power, alas!
And found they were slaves to this seeming good friend,
And have grown into drunkards and knaves, in the end.
Boys, touch not, nor taste!
Don't drink, boys,
Don't
!
If the loafers and idlers scoff, never heed:
True men and true women will wish you 'God-speed.'
There is nothing of purity, pleasure, or cheer
To be gotten from whiskey, wine, brandy, or beer.
Don't drink, boys,
Don't
!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The sounds of darkness
Darkness, it comes every night
The sounds come with it.
There are crickets humming,
And twigs falling making a thud on the roof.
The roar of a train, the rush of the creek,
The tap, tap, tap of the keyboard typing.
The buzz of my laptop and the sounds of the TV.
The soft, slow howl of the wind.
The sounds of darkness may differ with seasons
But no matter what time or day
The sounds will come.
The roar of a train, the rush of the creek,
The tap, tap, tap of the keyboard typing.
The buzz of my laptop and the sounds of the TV.
The soft, slow howl of the wind
poem by Maddie Shanahan
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Mercy, Mercy
Mercy, mercy, I'm so thirsty.
I thirst for a cup of kndness now
to flow into the bed of dryness
that's parched the hearts somehow
of all the mighty ones
that look, but do not see.
They've closed their eyes to all of those
that live with misery.
Their cups are filled right to the brim
to slake their thirst at will.
No tiny drops of kindness drip
from atop their Kingdom's hill.
Mercy, mercy, I'm so thirsty.
When will my thirst be quenched?
Only when humanity's cup runneth over
and the plights of the masses are drenched.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Ride Of Rody Burke
The heat haze veiled the distant hills, the white clouds floated high,
Drifting in slow content across the blue Australian sky;
And down in Clancy’s paddock there were mirth and laughter gay,
Where the She-Oak Jockey Club were met upon St. Patrick’s day.
There were carts and cars and buggies ranged beneath the spreading trees,
Where country folk for miles around were clustered thick as bees,
Watching the prancing horses pass with keen appraising eyes,
All out to win the Squatters’ Cup, the hundred-guinea prize.
Jim Daintry on The Digger rose; hopes for his mount were high,
A gallant roan with swinging pace, game head and fiery eye,
And Jim’s horse was the favourite, the betting there was keen,
But some were backing Rody Burke upon Dark Rosaleen.
A thing of velvet, fire and steel-a little dark brown mare,
With dainty legs and shoulders slant, lean head and high-bred air,
But knowing backers simply scoffed her chances of the race,
“She’ll never see his heels when once The Digger sets the pace.”
‘Twas just before the starting time that Rody reached the course,
And little Nora Shanahan watched for the dark brown horse,
And sighed to mark the rider’s face was white as if with pain,
Could Rody after all her prayers, be ‘going wild’ again?
How could she know that very morn as Rody cross the yard
The old white draught-horse lumbering by, had lashed out good and hard.
The broken ribs, the searing pain that caught his breath away—
Ah! Naught but Irish pluck and grit brought Rody there that day.
As he and Jim rose side by side, each cast a wistful eye
Where little Nora Shanahan looked on aloof and shy;
And each man thrilled at sight of her, the simple girlish grace,
The little kind brown hands of her, the apple-blossom face.
Rivals were they in sport and love, and yet good friends withal,
Whose true Australian mateship held no feeling mean or small,
And Nora, long her maiden heart had done an angels’ work,
With tears and prayers to save the soul of reckless Rody Burke.
Jim Daintry, manly, straight and true, had spreading acres wide,
And any girl in she-Oak might be proud to be his bride,
But who shall read a woman’s heart, or pierce its hidden screen,
Sweet Nora’s hopes were on the track with Rod and Rosaleen.
They’re off! A rush of flying hoofs, a blur of colours bright –
Tim Clancy’s Skylark in the lead, The Digger well in sight,
Dark Rosaleen leads the bunch behind, nor falters in her stride,
While Rody bears with sobbing breath the torture in his side.
And nearer, nearer still she draws, light as the summer wind,
She’s with The Digger neck and neck – the Skylark’s left behind,
Jim Daintry had his whale-bone out, before they reached the creek.
But Rosaleen’s dark shining coat showed neither spot nor streak.
And Rody whispered homely words, his tortured lips between,
“Hang to it now for Nora’s sake – ah! Stick it, Rosaleen!”
And as a swallow skimming low, swift as a streak of flame,
She passed The Digger’s mighty stride, as down the straight they came.
And flew between the winning posts a half a length before,
As “Rosaleen!' 'Dark Rosaleen!” rose in a mighty roar;
For thews and muscle, training e’en, are little more than dust,
When weighed against the spirit’s fire, that wins because it must.
But Rody all unconscious lay, nor heard the cheering cry,
With Jim’s strong arms around him clasped, all thought of self put by,
And Nora, trembling, joined the group that gazed upon the scene,
And raise her quivering girlish lips and kissed Dark Rosaleen.
A night of moonlight, dew-drenched flowers, and bending, whispering trees,
The music from the township ball came faintly on the breeze,
As Rody, bandaged here, gazed at Nora’s eyes of blue,
Telling the old, old story o’er to one who found it new.
And far across the moonlit plain, The Digger’s mighty stride,
Carried the aching heart of one who nursed his grief and pride.
Ah! the dear griefs of headstrong youth – half pleasure and half pain.
The gallant, hot, young broken hearts, so quick to heal again!
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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As much as we thirst for approval we dread condemnation.
quote by Hans Selye
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To The Eleven Ladies
WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP
ON THE TWENTY-NINTH OF AUGUST, M DCCC LXXXIX
'WHO gave this cup?' The secret thou wouldst steal
Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal:
No mortal's eye shall read it till he first
Cool the red throat of thirst.
If on the golden floor one draught remain,
Trust me, thy careful search will be in vain;
Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know
The names enrolled below.
Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well
Those modest names the graven letters spell
Hide from the sight; but wait, and thou shalt see
Who the good angels be.
Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift
That friendly hands to loving lips shall lift
Turn the fair goblet when its floor is dry,--
Their names shall meet thine eye.
Count thou their number on the beads of Heaven
Alas! the clustered Pleiads are but seven;
Nay, the nine sister Muses are too few,--
The Graces must add two.
'For whom this gift?' For one who all too long
Clings to his bough among the groves of song;
Autumn's last leaf, that spreads its faded wing
To greet a second spring.
Dear friends, kind friends, whate'er the cup may hold,
Bathing its burnished depths, will change to gold
Its last bright drop let thirsty Maenads drain,
Its fragrance will remain.
Better love's perfume in the empty bowl
Than wine's nepenthe for the aching soul;
Sweeter than song that ever poet sung,
It makes an old heart young!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Rose had a huge thirst one November.
A big thirst if I well it remember.
she did drink a whole pool,
And don`t call me a fool,
But this made her thirst feel even stronger.
quote by by Luis Estable
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When Rody Came To Ironbark
When Rody came to Ironbark, there spread a hectic glow
around the little township - a dozen years ago,
and the townsfolk were divided, twixt laughter and dismay
at the roysterin' ways of Rody - the madcap tricks he'd play.
When whisky-primed and mischief bent, he drove in wild career
the parson's sulky hitched behind O'Grady's brindled steer,
and he, and other reckless lads, with laughter, song and joke,
made life on earth a burden for all sober-minded folk.
When Rody came to Ironbark, 'twas fun to watch the girls,
Such sorting out of frills and frocks such pinning up of curls,
there were no 'bob's no 'shingles' then but ringlets floated down,
and the the curling tongs worked overtime, when Rody came to town.
And all the girls in Ironbark for Rody pined and sighed,
save little Nora Shanahan, all scorn and maiden pride,
(Now Rod was like a pine-tree, so straight and slim and tall,
but she was pink and dainty, as an apple-blossom small).
She captured Rody's wilful heart, but though he'd beg and pray,
not one soft word of hope or love would little Nora say;
but - how she prayed for Rody, she stormed high Heaven with tears
for all his sins and follies, his reckless wasted years.
In the little township chapel, when evening lights were faint,
she knelt long hours in silence - a little blue-eyed saint -
While Rody, all unknowing, went on his careless way;
but Heaven always answers when soul's like Nora's pray.
So Rody came to Ironbark proud, prosperous and neat -
a dozen hats are lifted as he drives along the street -
and Nora sits beside him, all calm and matronly;
there are four small folk behind them, and one on Nora's knee
(The boys are both like Rody - so straight and strong and tall-
but the girls are like a cluster of apple-blossoms small),
though the wild lads muse regretfully the good old days upon,
and all the township gossips say 'Another good man gone!'
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Drink From This Cup, Thirst Not In Afterlife
Will you drink freely my friend,
of the spirits, wine, or the ale?
Until you fall upon measured,
large drink stomach bloated.
Senseless in drunkard’s bowl,
like the dead beached whale.
Will you be in cups late into the night?
Thirsty traveller lingers at such a sight.
How soon, you thirst again, your ever bitter dry,
for aching head, it is hard, to gaze up into the sky.
There is a cup, of pure water, a cup of pure life,
all who drink from this cup, will thirst not, in afterlife.
Thus we chose
waters of intoxication.
In this world or
waters of life in the next.
One kills body soul
one prepares for resurrection.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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My Water Fountain
I drank glasses of water,
I drank water from office coolers.
Many people drank from water fountains.
I thought my thirst I could slake,
If I drank water from a cool lake.
Then I would would drink cold water,
From gushing waterfalls.
But much to my surprise,
I thirsted for all of Earth's water.
I couldn't fathom my inner self,
About slaking my thirst insatiable.
I couldn't come to grips about,
The deep waters of my life.
Was it my body? Or was it my soul?
Then I very quickly learned,
That this thirst for water that was burning in me,
Was my unending thirst for love
That everybody yearns for.
And everybody needs.
In quantities of glasses, coolers, waterfalls,
Lakes, oceans and seas.
poem by Vera Sidhwa
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Remembering Thirst
it was when there was not water anymore
when i remember thirst
i hold the glass peering carefully if there is still any water left
there is none and so i go on and on the usual way that was
everything still contained in the vessel of my childhood
the ordinary wants still unsatisfied sleeping the whole night in thirst
even so thirsty in dreams until
finally forgetting thirst
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In The Cup
There is grief in the cup!
I saw a proud mother set wine on the board;
The eyes of her son sparkled bright as she poured
The ruddy stream into the glass in his hand.
The cup was of silver; the lady was grand
In her satins and laces; her proud heart was glad
In the love of her fair, noble son; but, oh! sad,
Oh! so sad ere a year had passed by,
And the soft light had gone from her beautiful eye.
For the boy that she loved, with a love strong as death,
In the chill hours of morn with a drunkard's foul breath
And a drunkard's fierce oath, reeled and staggered his way
To his home, a dark blot on the face of the day.
There is shame in the cup!
The tempter said, 'Drink,' and a fair maiden quaffed
Till her cheeks glowed the hue of the dangerous draught.
The voice of the tempter spoke low in her ear
Words that once would have started the quick, angry tear,
But wine blunts the conscience, and wine dulls the brain,
She listened and smiled, and he whispered again.
He lifted the goblet: 'Once more,' he said, 'drink,'
And the soul of the maiden was lost in the brink.
There is death in the cup!
A man in God's image, strong, noble, and grand,
With talents that crowned him a prince of the land,
Sipped the ruddy red wine!-sipped it lightly at first,
Until from its chains broke the demon of thirst.
And thirst became master, and man became slave,
And he ended his life in the drunkard's poor grave.
Wealth, fame, talents, beauty, and life swallowed up,
Grief, shame, death, destruction, are all in the cup.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Sacrifice
i've seen you
thirst
i feel what
thirst is
you look for
water
or whatever
that satisfies
the dreams of
your lips& tongue
i thirst for
thirst itself
but i do not
look for water
or even if there
is this pool
i still do not
wish to drink anything
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The City of Dreadful Thirst
The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke--
"They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk.
But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define
A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine.
"Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm--
Two hundred in the water bag, and lookin' like a storm--
We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town,
When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down,
"We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust,
They mostly bring a Bogan shower -- three raindrops and some dust;
But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, 'I think
That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!'
"There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust -- we've heard of them before,
And sometimes in the daily press we read of 'clouds of war':
But -- if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst--
That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst.
"It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze;
It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days,
And now a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine
To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine.
"Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst!
We all chucked up our daily work and went upon the burst.
The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub,
They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub.
"We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried;
Shearers and squatters, union men and blacklegs side by side
Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said,
Before he'd get a half a mile the thirst would strike him dead!
"We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room,
And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom.
The shearers found some kerosene and settled down again,
But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train.
"And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie,
But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die.
But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work
Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke.
"But when you see these clouds about -- like this one over here--
All white and frothy at the top, just like a pint of beer,
It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst
You'd find the drink would all be gone, for that's a cloud of thirst!"
We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half;
He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff;
"I joined some friends last night," he said, "in what they called a spree;
But after Narromine 'twas just a holiday to me."
And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red,
And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead,
The railway train is taking back, along the Western Line,
That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Bloody Red Tears
Tears of blood
Oh, bloody red tears
They fall on my pillow
And it soaks in blood, red and liquefied
They fall to the floor bellow
And once dried...
It's covered in blood, brown and hardened
Oh, bloody red tears
They're the result of what no-one can mend
All my hurt that built up over the years
Bloody red tears
They're so beautiful to me
They quench my thirst nobody knows of or hears
Only one thirst could that be
The thirst to see blood and pain
Oh, it's so good to my eyes
But, my hurt, I also have a thirst to drain
All those lies!
They cause some of my bloody red tears
They cause my hardened heart, even when someone dies
Oh, bloddy red tears
They're so good to me
And have been all these years
poem by Amy Parkinson
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Prosperity and poverty
Hunger for food has been met;
Hunger for love has set in.
Hunger for power has been met;
Hunger for ethics has set in.
Hunger for lust has been met;
Hunger for faith has set in.
Thirst for knowledge has been met;
Thirst for innocence has set in.
Thirst for contacts has been met;
Thirst for concerns has set in.
Thirst for comfort has been met;
Thirst for compassion has set in.
Love, ethics, faith lost,
Innocence, concerns and compassion missing,
Despite food, power and lust,
Despite knowledge, comfort and compassion,
The soul will die a slow death
Long before the body succumbs.
The world will not die of poverty
But it will sure die of prosperity.
25.07.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Hearts First Word. I.
To sweeten a swift minute so
With such rare fragrance of sweet speech,
And make the after hours go
In a blank yearning each on each ;
To drain the springs till they be dry,
And then in anguish thirst for drink ;
So but to glimpse her robe thirst I,
And my soul hungers and I sink.
There is no word that we have said
Whereby the lips and heart arc fire;
No look the linked glances read
That held the springs of deep desire.
And yet the sounds her glad lips gave
Are on my soul vibrating still ;
Her eyes that swept me as a wave
Shine my soul's worship to fulfil.
Her hair, her eyes, her throat and chin-
Sweet hair, sweet eyes, sweet throat, so sweet,
So fair because the ways of sin
Have never known her perfect feet-
By what far ways and marvellous
May I such lovely heaven reach ?
What dread, dark seas and perilous
Lie 'twist love's silence and love's speech?
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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