The Spirit Of A Sponge
I dreamed one night that Stephen Massett died,
And for admission up at Heaven applied.
'Who are you?' asked St. Peter. Massett said:
'Jeems Pipes, of Pipesville.' Peter bowed his head,
Opened the gates and said: 'I'm glad to know you,
And wish we'd something better, sir, to show you.'
'Don't mention it,' said Stephen, looking bland,
And was about to enter, hat in hand,
When from a cloud below such fumes arose
As tickled tenderly his conscious nose.
He paused, replaced his hat upon his head,
Turned back and to the saintly warden said,
O'er his already sprouting wings: 'I swear
I smell some broiling going on down there!'
So Massett's paunch, attracted by the smell,
Followed his nose and found a place in Hell.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face
Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.
Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.
Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.
Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.
Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face!
poem by Jack Prelutsky
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Charles And Peter
Ere Gabriel's note to silence died
All graves of men were gaping wide.
Then Charles A. Dana, of 'The Sun,'
Rose slowly from the deepest one.
'The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ,'
Quoth he-'ick, bick, ban, doe,-I'm It!'
(His headstone, footstone, counted slow,
Were 'ick' and 'bick,' he 'ban' and 'doe':
Of beating Nick the subtle art
Was part of his immortal part.)
Then straight to Heaven he took his flight,
Arriving at the Gates of Light.
There Warden Peter, in the throes
Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose.
'Get up, you sluggard!' Dana cried
'I've an engagement there inside.'
The Saint arose and scratched his head.
'I recollect your face,' he said.
'(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard),
But--' Dana handed him a card.
'Ah, yes, I now remember-bless
My soul, how dull I am I-yes, yes,
'We've nothing better here than bliss.
Walk in. But I must tell you this:
'We've rest and comfort, though, and peace.'
'H'm-puddles,' Dana said, 'for geese.
'Have you in Heaven no Hell?' 'Why, no,'
Said Peter, 'nor, in truth, below.
''T is not included in our scheme-
'T is but a preacher's idle dream.'
The great man slowly moved away.
'I'll call,' he said, 'another day.
'On earth I played it, o'er and o'er,
And Heaven without it were a bore.'
'O, stuff!-come in. You'll make,' said Pete,
'A hell where'er you set your feet.'
1885.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Heaven
Everynight I go to sleep, youre there baby inside my head
Whats the secret that you keep
Its not fair baby, I toss in bed
One night I had the strangest dream
Dreamt I made love to you
You better believe it, it felt so real
Spent the night in the sea of love
Its crazy the attraction that I feel, now baby
It hit like a heart attack, I feel in my soul
But the trains running off the track and I cant get control
Sleepwalking in the house of love
I heard saint peter was calling
As I was making love to you
Dreamed that Id died and gone to heaven
I woke up in your arms
Dreamed that I died and gone to heaven
Nothing now will ever be the same
Saint peter call me back again
Take me there baby, you got me good
I want to hear his choir of angels sing
I say a prayer baby, I knock on wood
That every night I wake up restless from the heat
You got to believe I never had such a physical dream baby
Its built on sacred ground, your image in my head
So I lay my body down on the alter of my bed
I wait in the house of love and hope for sleep to come calling
So Ill be making love to you
Dreamed that Id died and gone to heaven
I woke up in your arms
Dreamed that I died and gone to heaven
Nothing now will ever be the same
Dreamed Id died and gone to heaven
Dreamed my life was through
Dreamed Id died and gone to heaven, woke in love with you
It hit like a heart attack, it came from out of nowhere
But the trains running off the track on a fragile wing and a prayer
Sleepwalking in the house of love I heard saint peter was calling
As I was making love to you
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Smell
Whiskey bottles, and brand new cars
Oak tree you're in my way
There's too much coke and too much smoke
Look what's going on inside you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Angel of darkness is upon you
Stuck a needle in your arm
So take another toke, have a blow for your nose
One more drink fool, will drown you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Now they call you Prince Charming
Can't speak a word when you're full of 'ludes
Say you'll be all right come tomorrow
But tomorrow might not be here for you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Hey, you're a fool you
Stick them needles in your arm
I know I been there before
One little problem that confronts you
Got a monkey on your back
Just one more fix, Lord might do the trick
One hell of a price for you to get your kicks
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
song performed by by 3 Doors Down
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Smell
(allen collins - ronnie vanzant)
Whiskey bottles, and brand new cars
Oak tree youre in my way
Theres too much coke and too much smoke
Look whats going on inside you
Ooooh that smell
Cant you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Angel of darkness is upon you
Stuck a needle in your arm
So take another toke, have a blow for your nose
One more drink fool, will drown you
Ooooh that smell
Cant you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Now they call you prince charming
Cant speak a word when youre full of ludes
Say youll be all right come tomorrow
But tomorrow might not be here for you
Ooooh that smell
Cant you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Hey, youre a fool you
Stick them needles in your arm
I know I been there before
One little problem that confronts you
Got a monkey on your back
Just one more fix, lord might do the trick
One hell of a price for you to get your kicks
Ooooh that smell
Cant you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Ooooh that smell
Cant you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
song performed by by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Travels Of Farklavar
I took time to stop and smell the roses
But they didn't have a smell
Then I had and epic snowball fight
With the Denizens of hell
And as I went on my marry way
They sighed and wished me well
As I woke the very next morning
To a dying wedding belle
I stormed the gates of heaven
Found them impervious to rain
So I knocked on heavens door
St Peter answered
Asking for some change
With his halo in his hand
And his eyes utterly deranged
I reached into my pockets
And gave him everything that remained
From my hand he took all I had
And then his chest he crossed
As he ushered me through the pearly gates
Declaring all was lost
And as I stepped through the clouds
I was amazed by what I found
For there were no angels or a God
Anywhere around, in fact
The only thing that did remain
As holy evidence.
Was a tattered note
Pinned to the ground
That read
Sorry for the inconvenience
I took time to stop and smell the roses
But they didn't have a scent
And I always felt like I was trapped
No matter where I went
Weather as a free man
Or a prisoner of war
This world has stolen my innocence
And treated me like a whore
So I fought for every single inch
Of my very own self respect
And in order to do so
I had to entirely disconnect.
To let go and disconnect
Is frightening yet beautifully hard.
Letting go will free you.
But boy does it leave a scar
poem by Keith Sennette
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I wonder how I fit into my new country
Respect for other people
and self are missing
and while I go up the steps
of the bus
teenage girls are shouting
loudly to each other
and a ghetto blaster,
is playing very loud music
and it’s much worst
than in a mad bazaar.
a Toddler pushes her fingers
one after the other
into her nose
and draws lines
on seats and windows
and her mother
wipes her nose against her jersey.
An overweight lady
sits down next to me
and there’s a sharp smell
that hits my nose
and no other seat
to go to
and I wonder if she
bathed this week,
or this month
and are scared that head lice
are going to jump on to me.
The bus draws away
and misses a car narrowly
and jerks
while the driver changes gears,
as if he’s struggling
to get the right one.
When I get off at the bus stop
there’s a man relieving himself
and the urine smell,
hangs heavy in the air
and I wonder how
I fit into my new country.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Janice and You at Waterloo Station
At Waterloo Station
the steam engines
puffed powerful steam
reaching up
to the rooftop
and you stood there
hands in your pockets
your nose sniffing in
the white and grey smell
you can taste it
on your tongue
and Janice beside you
her eyes looked up
at the rooftop
as the steam
reached high
her hands clutching
the small bag
I want to be a train driver
when I'm older
you said
I want to smell
that smell
and breathe in
that steam and shovel
coal in the engine
maybe you will
Janice said
maybe you'll be
on a train like that
big and black
and powerful
she put her hand
under your arm
and squeezed
Gran said we can be
what we want
if we want it
bad enough
Janice added
you felt her hand
under your arm
sensed her squeeze it
we went to the seaside
on a big black train
like this last year
you said
and I put my head
out the train window
and my mum said
keep your head in
or a train
will knock it off
that'd be horrible
Janice said
she clutched
closer to you
as the steam train
puffed out more steam
and the sound was loud
and powerful
and she said
maybe
when you're an engine driver
you can take me
to the seaside
with Gran
yes
you said
and if you come
to the engine
before you take off
I can show you
the engine
and how powerful it is
and she smiled
and put her head
on your shoulder
yes
you said softly
when I grow up
and when I am older.
poem by Terry Collett
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Smell of your hair
rolling over in bed this night
I found a little hidden delight
for on the pillow I smelled your hair
making me wish that you were still there
memories of our time spent together
and how your hair tickled my nose like a feather
made me long for your joyful presence
though you've been gone for a month since
flooding my mind with your laughter and smile
still makes me wish you'd not been gone this long while
will I ever get over you? now, only time will tell
having lived through our breakup, has been total hell
even though my heart continues to billow
each time I smell your hair on your pillow
poem by Jr James D Nall
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Stop Funk'n With My Head
Muir-Trujillo-Dunn
Hey hey hey somebody's always funk'n with your head
No matter where you go you know you just can't stop people
from funk'n with your head
I was hanging around wasn't making no sound then you
come on down but you say that thing to me
With your runny nose and your out-of-date clothes and you still are
playing with G.I. Joes so stay away from me
Chorus:
So why you fu why you fu fu funk'n why you funk'n with my head
Hey hey hey somebody's always funk'n with my head
No matter where I go I know
I just can't stop people from funk'n with my head
You got your attitude and you're getting crude and you're
thinking you're rude
But you just ain't got she with me
And you ain't got a clue and you smell like pu and you can't even
Walk with your size 20 shoes so step away from me
Chorus
Funk it up
Can't you hear what I just said stop that funk'n with my head
Hey hey hey somebody's always funk'n with my head
No matter where I go I know
I just can't stop people from funk'n with my head
Hey hey hey hey hey hey hey watch the funk'n with my head
Don't matter what you know don't matter what you show doesn't matter
Where you come or where you're gonna go when you're funk'n with my head
Chorus
song performed by by Infectious Grooves
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tunnel Vision
I have been advised of having tunnel vision...
You know when you are near blind as a bat?
Worried and in fear-for my eyes my dear?
Nah, my nose works and i'm sure i smell a rat**! ;
Thank God for my nose and my ears...
Never mind my limited sight...
A highly developed instinct also carries me-
Through the blackest of darkest night! ;
It gives me much sought after information...
Of long ago sequesterd plans and schemes...**
I've been told that i am sixth sense old...
That my information is formed in my dreams;
So never mind my tunnel vision sweetheart-
My nose and my ears do just fine...
Coupled with the sixth sense instinct God gave to me...
For miles i can smell my enemies sign**;
May 14,2010
**Smoke From The Attic (as usual)
The Phantom IS Back.
poem by Theodora Onken
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Saint Peter
Now, I think there is a likeness 'twixt St Peter's life and mine
For he did a lot of trampin' long ago in Palestine
He was 'union' when the workers first began to organize
And I'm glad that old St Peter keeps the gate of Paradise
When the ancient agitator and his brothers carried swags
I've no doubt he very often tramped with empty tucker-bags
And I'm glad he's Heaven's picket, for I hate explainin' things
And he'll think a union ticket just as good as Whitely King's
When I reach the great head-station -which is somewhere 'off the track'
I won't want to talk with angels who have never been out back
They might bother me with offers of a banjo meanin' well
And a pair of wings to fly with, when I only want a spell
I'll just ask for old St Peter, and I think, when he appears
I will only have to tell him that I carried swag for years
'I've been on the track,' I'll tell him, 'an' I done the best I could'
And he'll understand me better than the other angels would
He won't try to get a chorus out of lungs that's worn to rags
Or to graft the wings on shoulders that is stiff with humpin' swags
But I'll rest about the station where the work-bell never rings
Till they blow the final trumpet and the Great Judge sees to things.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Judgment Day
Saint Peter stood, at Heaven's gate,
All souls claims to adjudicate
Saying to some souls, 'Enter in!'
'Go to Hell,' to others, 'you are steeped in sin.'
When up from earth, with a great hubbub,
Came all the members of the Tuscarora Club.
The angel Gabriel, peering out,
Said, 'What, the devil, is this noise about?'
'Gabe,' said Peter, 'There's always lots of noise,
At any get-together of the Tuscarora boys -
Those are anglers and they all tell lies
About the trout that got away, their fierceness and their size -
They want to enter Heaven, for our brooks are full of trout,
But I won't have any liars, and I'll keep the whole gang out;
No liars enter Heaven, and I'll most distinctly tell
The whole danged Tuscarora Club, it has to go to Hell.'
Then, at a little distance from the precious pearly gate,
The Tuscarora fellows paused to talk and cogitate;
One Barr said this, one Barr said that, McAlpin had his say,
But foxy Charley Roberts said, 'This is the only way -
'You'd best leave this to me,' he said. 'Just let me handle Pete
and in a trice we'll be inside upon the golden street;
I'll show him that he's one of us, because he used to be,
Himself, a brother fisher, in the Sea of Gallilee-
And I move you, Mr. President, we make the poor old dub
An honorary member of the Tuscarora Club.'
'Agreed! Agreed!' the members cried, but Manny Barr said, 'Wait!
Amend it thus 'PROVIDED - That he didn't fish with bait.''
Saint Peter saw them coming but his face was hard and stern,
He had formed his resolution from which he would not turn,
Not even Roberts' palaver would ever change him so
He'd send the Tuscarorans anywhere, but down below.
But now upon his countenance there came a look of pain,
He stepped from foot to foot, and then from foot to foot again:
He hailed a new-come resident, who near the portal stood,
A goodly Christian gentleman, whose name was Hubert Wood.
He said to him, 'Come here, my friend, and tend awhile this gate-
Just take my place for half an hour - I've got to urinate.'
With that Saint Peter hustled off. The gate-keeper pro tem
Observed the Tuscarorans and he waved his hand at them.
'Come in! come in!' he shouted, for he was an angler, too,
And he knew that anglers, as a whole, were earth's most harmless crew.
So all the Tuscarorans got to heaven, thanks to Wood,
And the Secretary's last report says, 'Fishing there is good.'
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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When you turn around
eyes wait
the twilight to open the swollen
tears wait, until the night welcome
the morning light,
gorgeous as the lips that touches
the smooth skin
in your refreshing crown
raise adore
quick flashes
the growing follower to bloom,
push to the waving leaves
that tenderly kisses
the moisturizing eyes of the early
butterfly wish, fallen
like dew in the forest thirst
of the rainbow, the heart
comments
bow the lasting glances
of the Bees, showing the lifelines
of the quest of the
sweet perfume of the night, the
wish that wonder the lasting smell of the
fragrance reveals
my dear
tenderly sweet the smell that touches
my nose,
I’ll surely die …..
poem by Antonio Liao
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The Smell of a Dog
I love the way a dog smells.
Ever since I was a boy,
I have loved the smell of a dog's paws,
leathery pads, edged with fur,
that absorb the rich, musty fragrances
of where the dog and I have been
in our adventures together.
I love the smell of the top of a dog's head,
where the fur is smoother than at any other
part of the animal
and is usually cleaner, too.
The top-of-the-head smell is fresher than the paw,
more like the smell of a little boy's hair
at the end of a summer's day in the sun.
I don't mind
the faint smell of skunk on a dog,
(but only if it's faint) .
Snuggling down for a nap
with my skunk flavored companion
lying next to me
puts me back in another time,
when the world was new,
waiting to be explored and discovered
by my friends and me and our dogs;
when the little lame balloon man
was simply another reason to wonder.
The Biker chick Rag
So long farewell goodbye
your tears won’t buy me a beer
Someday when your young again I’ll
come home again
So long farewell goodbye
She left on her Harley
a thunder of pipes
was all that I could hear
She looped back around
and gave me a biker check wave
as the front wheel began to rise
a wheelie they call it
a cycle display
of contempt and delight at having her way
Her leathers were fringed
and the bone in her nose
sparkled in the light of the day
She rides with Hell’s Angels
east of LA
and works in a strippers bar
I stop now and again
to sit and watch her act
and leave a buck or two
in the G-string she wears
for her pants
So long farewell goodbye
she says
as I leave to pick up the kids.
Oh how I miss that damn bone in her nose
So long farewell goodbye
poem by Stephen S. Yeandle
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Too Late To Say Sorry
“Let me in, ” said the man as he rattled the gates.
“Go away; ” said Peter, “you’re not welcome here.”
“Let me in I say, ” said the angry man once more.
“Move on you’re causing a queue, ” said someone near.
“Shut your mouth, ” said the man rattling the gates.
“Go away; ” said Peter, “you’re wasting my time.”
“Hey you, the one with the mouth holding up the queue
you belong in hell with the rest of your kind.”
“I’m not going to hell, ” said the man at the gate.
“You have no choice the gates aren’t open to you.”
“I admit I was evil once, but that was before I died
I’ve changed and I want to start anew.”
“Your fate’s been decided, ” said a voice from behind,
“You may as well accept what’s coming to you.
You have to pay the price for the evil you’ve done
and there’s no way to escape what’s due.”
“Why won’t you listen to a man that’s made mistakes?
I’ve admitted my guilt although a little bit late,
no one deserves an eternity of pain and torment.”
He then slowly disappeared to seal his fate.
poem by Orlando Belo
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O! What a nose!
People talk about a running nose
I'm talking about a long facial cargo
She’s got a nose longer than my longest toes
With a mission of being nosy as time goes
Please don’t get close
When she discloses
Her loud snoring doze
Don’t be like the heroes
Goodness gracious
O! What a nose!
Goodness gracious
What a precious nose pose!
Painted as red as a romantic rose
Standing long like my garden pipe hose
And as she sniffs, sneezes and exposes
I cannot help thinking of Pinocchio’s nose
Goodness gracious
O! What a nose!
Goodness gracious
Red and long when it snows
And this nose is nosy
She can smell a rat, cat or a bat
When you are getting cozy
In your one bedroom flat
O! What a nose!
In and out juice flows
And when she smells the air
They all cannot help but stare
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Unarmed
Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate,
When Stephen M. White arrived in state.
'Admit me.' 'With pleasure,' Peter said,
Pleased to observe that the man was dead;
'That's what I'm here for. Kindly show
Your ticket, my lord, and in you go.'
White stared in blank surprise. Said he
'I _run_ this place-just turn that key.'
'Yes?' said the Saint; and Stephen heard
With pain the inflection of that word.
But, mastering his emotion, he
Remarked: 'My friend, you're too d-- free;
'I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!'
And, 'Yes?' the guardian said, with quite
The self-same irritating stress
Distinguishing his former yes.
And still demurely as a mouse
He twirled the key to that Upper House.
Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain
Admittance to those halls to gain,
Said, neighborly: 'Pray tell me. Pete,
Does any one contest my seat?'
The Saint replied: 'Nay, nay, not so;
But you voted always wrong below:
'Whate'er the question, clear and high
You're voice rang: '_I_,' '_I_,' ever '_I_.''
Now indignation fired the heart
Of that insulted immortal part.
'Die, wretch!' he cried, with blanching lip,
And made a motion to his hip,
With purpose murderous and hearty,
To draw the Democratic party!
He felt his fingers vainly slide
Upon his unappareled hide
(The dead arise from their 'silent tents'
But not their late habiliments)
Then wailed-the briefest of his speeches:
'I've left it in my other breeches!'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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