The Unpardonable Sin
I reckon that ye never knew,
That dandy slugger, Tom Carew,
He had a touch as light an' free
As that of any honey-bee;
But where it lit there wasn't much
To jestify another touch.
O, what a Sunday-school it was
To watch him puttin' up his paws
An' roominate upon their heft
Particular his holy left!
Tom was my style-that's all I say;
Some others may be equal gay.
What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure
He's dead-which make his fate obscure.
I only started in to clear
One vital p'int in his career,
Which is to say-afore he died
He soiled his erming mighty snide.
Ye see he took to politics
And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks;
Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent,
Just like he was the President;
Went to the Legislator; spoke
Right out agin the British yoke
But that was right. He let his hair
Grow long to qualify for Mayor,
An' once or twice he poked his snoot
In Congress like a low galoot!
It had to come-no gent can hope
To wrastle God agin the rope.
Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead,
I s'pose it oughtn't to be said,
For sech inikities as flow
From politics ain't fit to know;
But, if you think it's actin' white
To tell it-Thomas throwed a fight!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
Jim Of Maribyrnong
They were forthright days when Jim was born,
When they called a spade a spade.
And statesmen held in lofty scorn
he trickster's sticky trade.
For their eyes were clear and their views were strong,
And they'd be no party's too!
And big, bluff Jim of Maribyrnong
Learned wisdom in this school.
For black was black, and white was white,
When good Victoria reigned,
And argument made no wrong right,
No demagogue explained
That good might ever come of wrong,
Or black be painted white,
When big, bluff Jim of Maribyrnong
Went out to fight the fight.
'Twas thus Jim learned his politics;
And he's little changed today;
For he failed to learn those subtle tricks
That modern 'statesmen' play.
To aid the folk who'd suffered long
Thro' tyranny's base laws,
Marched big, bluff Jim of Maribyrnong,
Staunch for the Labor cause.
But times have changed a deal of late,
And the 'art' of politics;
And they say that Jim is out of date,
And will not learn new tricks.
But still unswayed by wrangling throng,
Forthright and conscience free,
Goes simple Jim of Maribyrnong
With his crude, blunt honesty.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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To The Boys Who Took The Count
See, I'm writin' to Mick as a bloke to a bloke
To a cobber o' mine at the front
An' I'm gittin' full up uv the mullock they poke
At the cove that is bearin' the brunt.
Fer 'e mus'n't do this an' 'e shouldn't do that,
An' 'e's crook if 'e looks a bit shick,
An' 'e's gittin' too uppish, an' don't touch 'is 'at
But 'ere's 'ow I puts it to Mick.
Now it's dickin to style if yer playin' the game.
If it's marbles, or shinty, or war;
I've seen 'em lob 'ome 'ere, the 'alt an' the lame,
That wus fine 'efty fellers before.
They wus toughs, they wus crooks, they wus ev'ry bad thing,
But they mixed it as gentlemen should.
So 'ere's to the coot wiv 'is eye in a sling,
An' a smile in the one that is good.
It wus playin' the game in the oval an' ring
An' playin' fer orl it wus worth
That give 'em the knack uv a punch wiv a sting
When they fought fer the land uv their birth.
They wus pebs, they wus narks, they wus reel naughty boys,
But they didn't need no second 'int,
So ere's to the bloke wiv 'is swearin' an' noise,
An' 'is foot in a fathom uv lint.
There wus fellers I knoo in the soft days uv peace;
An' I didn't know much to their good;
An' they give more 'ard graft to the overworked p'leece
Than a reel puffick gentleman should.
They wus lookin' fer lash long before it wus doo;
When it come, they wus into it, straight.
So 'ere's to the bloke wiv 'is shoulder shot thro'
'Oo is cursin' the days 'e's to wait.
Ar, dickin to swank! when it comes to a mill,
It's the bloke wiv a punch 'oo's yer friend.
An' a coarse, narsty man wiv the moniker Bill
Earns the thanks uv the crowd in the end.
(An' when I sez 'earns' I am 'opin' no stint
Will be charged agin us by-an'-bye.)
So 'ere's to the boy wiv 'is arm in a splint
An' a 'don't-care-a-dam' in 'is eye.
'Cos the fightin's too far fer to give us a grip
Of the 'ell full uv slaughter an' noise,
There's a breed that gives me the particular pip
Be the way that they torks uv the boys.
0, they're coarse, an' they're rude, an' it's awful to liv
Wiv their cursin' an' shoutin' an' fuss.
Dam it! 'Ere's to the bloke wiv the bad-lookin' chiv
That 'e poked inter trouble fer us!
0, it's dead agin etikit, dead agin style
Fer to swear an' to swagger an' skite;
But a battle ain't won wiv a drorin'-room smile,
An' yeh 'ave to be rude in a fight.
An' it's bein' reel rude to enemy blokes
That'll earn yeh that 'ero-like touch,
So 'ere's to the boy wiv 'is curses an' jokes
'Oo is 'oppin' about on a crutch.
Now, the Turk is a gent, an' they greets 'im as such,
An' they gives doo respect to 'is Nibs;
But 'e never 'eld orf to apolergise much
When 'e slid 'is cold steel in their ribs.
An' our boys won the name that they give 'em of late
'Cos they fought like a jugful uv crooks,
So 'ere's to the bloke wiv the swaggerin' gait
An' a bullet mark spoilin' 'is looks.
So, the bloke wiv the scoff, an' the bloke wiv the sneer,
An' the coot wiv the sensitive soul,
'E 'as got to sit back, an' jist change 'is idear
Uv the stuffin' that makes a man whole.
Fer the polish an' gilt that's a win wiv the skirts
It wears thin wiv the friction uv war.
So 'ere's to the cove 'oo is nursin' 'is 'urts
Wiv an oath in the set uv 'is jor.
When yeh've stripped a cove clean an' got down to the buff
Yeh come to the meat that's the man.
If yeh want to find grit an' sich similar stuff,
Yeh've to strip on a similar plan.
Fer there's nothin' like scrappin' to bare a man's soul,
If it's Billo, or Percy, or Gus.
So 'ere's to the bloke 'oo 'ops round on a pole
An' 'owls songs goin' 'ome on the bus.
Spare me days! When a bloke takes the count in a scrap
That 'e's fightin' fer you an' fer me,
Is it fair that a snob 'as the nerve fer to snout
Any swad 'cos 'is manners is free?
They're deservin' our thanks, frum the best to the worst -
An' there's some is reel rorty, I own
But 'ere's to the coot wiv the 'ang-over thirst
'Oo sprags a stray toff fer a loan.
So I'm writin' to Mick; an' I'm feelin' reel wet
Wiv the sort o' superior nark,
'Oo tilts up 'is conk an' gits orl the boys set,
'Oo are out fer a bit uv a lark.
So I puts it to Mick, as I sez when I starts,
An' I ends wiv the solemest toast:
'Ere's to 'im - (raise yer glass) - 'oo left pride in our 'earts
An' 'is bones on Gallipoli coast.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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How Salty Win Out
I used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin' else but luck--
It made no diff'rence how or when or where or why it struck;
But sev'ral years ago I changt my mind, an' now proclaim
That luck's a kind uv science--same as any other game;
It happened out in Denver in the spring uv '80 when
Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten.
Salty wuz a printer in the good ol' Tribune days,
An', natural-like, he fell into the good ol' Tribune ways;
So, every Sunday evenin' he would sit into the game
Which in this crowd uv thoroughbreds I think I need not name;
An' there he'd sit until he rose, an', when he rose, he wore
Invariably less wealth about his person than before.
But once there came a powerful change; one sollum Sunday night
Occurred the tidal wave that put ol' Salty out o' sight.
He win on deuce an' ace an' Jack--he win on king an' queen--
Clif Bell allowed the like uv how he win wuz never seen.
An' how he done it wuz revealed to all us fellers when
He said he teched a humpback to win out ten.
There must be somethin' in it, for he never win afore,
An' when he told the crowd about the humpback, how they swore!
For every sport allows it is a losin' game to luck
Agin the science uv a man who's teched a hump f'r luck;
And there is no denyin' luck wuz nowhere in it when
Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten.
I've had queer dreams an' seen queer things, an' allus tried to do
The thing that luck apparently intended f'r me to;
Cats, funerils, cripples, beggers have I treated with regard,
An' charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard;
But what's the use uv talkin'? I say, an' say again:
You've got to tech a humpback to win out ten!
So, though I used to think that luck wuz lucky, I'll allow
That luck, for luck, agin a hump aint nowhere in it now!
An' though I can't explain the whys an' wherefores, I maintain
There must be somethin' in it when the tip's so straight an' plain;
For I wuz there an' seen it, an' got full with Salty when
Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten!
poem by Eugene Field
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Politics is not predictions and politics is not observations. Politics is what we do. Politics is what we do, politics is what we create, by what we work for, by what we hope for and what we dare to imagine.
quote by Paul Wellstone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dandy
Dandy, dandy,
Where you gonna go now?
Who you gonna run to?
All your little life
Youre chasing all the girls.
They cant resist your smile.
Oh, they long for dandy, dandy.
Checkin out the ladies,
Tickling their fancy,
Pouring out your charm
To meet your own demands,
And turn it off at will.
Oh, they long for dandy, dandy.
Knockin on the back door,
Climbing through the window,
Hubbys gone away,
And while the cats away
The mice are gonna play.
Oh, you low down dandy, dandy.
Dandy
Dandy, you know youre moving much too fast,
And dandy, you know you cant escape the past.
Look around you and see the people settle down,
And when youre old and grey you will remember what they said,
That two girls are too many, threes a crowd and four youre dead.
Oh dandy, dandy,
When you gonna give up?
Are you feeling old now?
You always will be free,
You need no sympathy,
A bachelor you will stay,
And dandy, youre all right.
Youre all right.
Youre all right.
Youre all right.
Youre all right.
Youre all right.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Think Of Myself As Dead
WHEN I THINK OF MYSELF AS DEAD
When I think of myself as dead
I think of what it will mean for my loved ones
I pray they will not lose heart and hope because of it-
When my father died my brother lost hope-
When I think of myself dead
I wonder about God and God�s purpose
Is there really an afterlife?
What could it mean?
Will I meet again those who have gone before me?
When I think of myself dead
I think about a body in the ground
Worms eating it, cold paining it-
When I think of myself as dead
I think about never feeling anything again-
When I think about myself as dead
I think about the work I have left behind
And whether it will mean anything to anyone
And for how long-
When I think of myself as dead
I think of all the memories that will go with me
I think about nothing and more nothing and the end of the universe-
When I think of myself as dead
I think of life going on down below
Life with all its beauty and pain
And I pray and I pray again
My loved ones will be able to manage and make their own lives still happy
When I think of myself as dead
I pray to G-d
That somehow in some way
It will not be the end for me forever.
When I think of myself as dead
I think of myself as living again somehow
In a way I cannot now know-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Hiroshima Child
I come and stand at every door
But none can hear my silent tread
I knock and yet remain unseen
For I am dead for I am dead
I'm only seven though I died
In Hiroshima long ago
I'm seven now as I was then
When children die they do not grow
My hair was scorched by swirling flame
My eyes grew dim my eyes grew blind
Death came and turned my bones to dust
And that was scattered by the wind
I need no fruit I need no rice
I need no sweets nor even bread
I ask for nothing for myself
For I am dead for I am dead
All that I need is that for peace
You fight today you fight today
So that the children of this world
Can live and grow and laugh and play
poem by Nazim Hikmet
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Yorick
Hard by an excavated street one sat
In solitary session on the sand;
And ever and anon he spake and spat
And spake again-a yellow skull in hand,
To which that retrospective Pioneer
Addressed the few remarks that follow here:
'Who are you? Did you come 'der blains agross,'
Or 'Horn aroundt'? In days o' '49
Did them thar eye-holes see the Southern Cross
From the Antarctic Sea git up an' shine?
Or did you drive a bull team 'all the way
From Pike,' with Mr. Joseph Bowers?-say!
'Was you in Frisco when the water came
Up to Montgum'ry street? and do you mind
The time when Peters run the faro game
Jim Peters from old Mississip-behind
Wells Fargo's, where he subsequent was bust
By Sandy, as regards both bank and crust?
'I wonder was you here when Casey shot
James King o' William? And did you attend
The neck-tie dance ensuin'? _I_ did not,
But j'ined the rush to Go Creek with my friend
Ed'ard McGowan; for we was resolved
In sech diversions not to be involved.
'Maybe I knowed you; seems to me I've seed
Your face afore. I don't forget a face,
But names I disremember-I'm that breed
Of owls. I'm talking some'at into space
An' maybe my remarks is too derned free,
Seein' yer name is unbeknown to me.
'Ther' was a time, I reckon, when I knowed
Nigh onto every dern galoot in town.
That was as late as '50. Now she's growed
Surprisin'! Yes, me an' my pardner, Brown,
Was wide acquainted. If ther' was a cuss
We didn't know, the cause was-he knowed us.
'Maybe you had that claim adjoinin' mine
Up thar in Calaveras. Was it you
To which Long Mary took a mighty shine,
An' throwed squar' off on Jake the Kangaroo?
I guess if she could see ye now she'd take
Her chance o' happiness along o' Jake.
'You ain't so purty now as you was then:
Yer eyes is nothin' but two prospect holes,
An' women which are hitched to better men
Would hardly for sech glances damn their souls,
As Lengthie did. By G--! I _hope_ it's you,
For' _(kicks the skull)_ 'I'm Jake the Kangaroo.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Aunt Chloe's Politics
Of course, I don't know very much
About these politics,
But I think that some who run 'em,
Do mighty ugly tricks.
I've seen 'em honey-fugle round,
And talk so awful sweet,
That you'd think them full of kindness
As an egg is full of meat.
Now I don't believe in looking
Honest people in the face,
And saying when you're doing wrong,
That 'I haven't sold my race.'
When we want to school our children,
If the money isn't there,
Whether black or white have took it,
The loss we all must share.
And this buying up each other
Is something worse than mean,
Though I thinks a heap of voting,
I go for voting clean.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Tom Johnson's Quit
A passel o' the boys last night--
An' me amongst 'em--kindo got
To talkin' Temper'nce left an' right,
An' workin' up 'blue-ribbon,' _hot_;
An' while we was a-countin' jes'
How many bed gone into hit
An' signed the pledge, some feller says,--
'Tom Johnson's quit!'
We laughed, of course--'cause Tom, you know,
_He's_ spiled more whisky, boy an' man,
And seed more trouble, high an' low,
Than any chap but Tom could stand:
And so, says I '_He's_ too nigh dead.
Far Temper'nce to benefit!'
The feller sighed agin, and said--
'Tom Johnson's quit!'
We all _liked_ Tom, an' that was why
We sorto simmered down agin,
And ast the feller ser'ously
Ef he wa'n't tryin' to draw us in:
He shuck his head--tuck off his hat--
Helt up his hand an' opened hit,
An' says, says he, 'I'll _swear_ to that--
Tom Johnson's quit!'
Well, we was stumpt, an' tickled too,--
Because we knowed ef Tom _had_ signed
Ther wa'n't no man 'at wore the 'blue'
'At was more honester inclined:
An' then and there we kindo riz,--
The hull dern gang of us 'at bit--
An' th'owed our hats and let 'er whizz,--
'_Tom Johnson's quit!_'
I've heerd 'em holler when the balls
Was buzzin' 'round us wus 'n bees,
An' when the ole flag on the walls
Was flappin' o'er the enemy's,
I've heerd a-many a wild 'hooray'
'At made my heart git up an' git--
But Lord!--to hear 'em shout that way!--
'_Tom Johnson's quit!_'
But when we saw the chap 'at fetched
The news wa'n't jinin' in the cheer,
But stood there solemn-like, an' reched
An' kindo wiped away a tear,
We someway sorto' stilled agin,
And listened--I kin hear him yit,
His voice a-wobblin' with his chin,--
'Tom Johnson's quit--
'I hain't a-givin' you no game--
I wisht I was!... An hour ago,
This operator--what's his name--
The one 'at works at night, you know?--
Went out to flag that Ten Express,
And sees a man in front of hit
Th'ow up his hands an' stagger--yes,--
_Tom Johnson's quit_.'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Me Touch Myself
As I awake this lonely mornin'
I do thank God that U were born
And I picture us on furry floors
And I like it so me touch myself
I prayed that I could have U all 2 myself
So U came 4 me and no one else
Now my heart beats wild 4 U I melt
I want U so me touch myself
Hallelujah
CHORUS:
Me touch myself, me touch myself
Until U and I can truly melt
Every morning me touch myself
This power that U have is unexplainable
If I could live without U honey - debatable
I'm not used 2 this feeling of unstable
Come and get me before me touch myself
CHORUS
Like ice I will become until U come 4 me
No one ever will warm me, I'll be cold as can be
I need the pictures only U and I can see
I need U so me touch myself
I bleed 4 U and me touch myself
U planted the seed, now me touch myself
It's a shame indeed, now me touch myself
Me touch myself
CHORUS
(CHORUS)
I.. I.. I will finally free
Come and get me and U'll see
I'll be like others never be
Ooh wee, baby, U make me touch myself
Oh baby, me touch myself
Me touch myself {repeat 2 fade
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The News
Whut dat you whisperin' keepin' f'om me?
Don't shut me out 'cause I 's ol' an' can't see.
Somep'n's gone wrong dat 's a-causin' you dread,--
Don't be afeared to tell--Whut! mastah dead?
Somebody brung de news early to-day,--
One of de sojers he led, do you say?
Did n't he foller whah ol' mastah lead?
How kin he live w'en his leadah is dead?
Let me lay down awhile, dah by his bed;
I wants to t'ink,--hit ain't cleah in my head:--
Killed while a-leadin' his men into fight,--
Dat 's whut you said, ain't it, did I hyeah right?
Mastah, my mastah, dead dah in de fiel'?
Lif me up some,--dah, jes' so I kin kneel.
I was too weak to go wid him, dey said,
Well, now I 'll--fin' him--so--mastah is dead.
Yes, suh, I 's comin' ez fas' ez I kin,--
Twas kin' o' da'k, but hit 's lightah agin:
P'omised yo' pappy I 'd allus tek keer
Of you,--yes, mastah,--I 's follerin',--hyeah!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Ghosts
There are ghosts in the room.
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there
They come out of the gloom,
And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair.
There's the ghost of a Hope
That lighted my days with a fanciful glow.
In her hand is the rope
That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.
But her ghost comes to-night,
With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes,
And it stands in the light,
And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.
There's the ghost of a Joy,
A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,
And the hands that destroy
Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.
There's the ghost of a Love,
Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest,
But he towers above
All the others... this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.
I am weary, and fain
Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host
Make my struggle in vain,
In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Dead Rock Star
(feat. The Stooges)
They think that I've got the bread
They want to read my head
The position show his cool
Like football star in school
Someone to sell me
Someone to tell me
I'm a dead rock star
in a dead rock car
I'm a dead rock star
I'm so afraid of failing
I hang onto the railing
This cold hard graduation
Kills all infatuation
I took the hazing
They said "amazing"
I'm a dead rock star
in a dead rock car
I'm a dead rock star
I gathered awful knowledge
You cannot get in college
Would you like Cain or Abel
I'll bring them to the table
They try to rope me
They try to grope me
I'm a dead rock star
in a dead rock car
I'm a dead rock star
What can I hope for ?
What can I hope for ?
Nothing to live for
Nothing to live for
I'm a dead rock star
in a dead rock car
I'm a dead rock star
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Prayer to St. Francis
'The eyes of the saint make all beauty holy and the hands of the saint consecrate everything they touch.' Thomas Merton
Look at me, O Saint,
sagging skin,
thinning hair, face
lined with roads
too far traveled.
Can you see
in me God's
beauty?
Then touch me!
O take into
your holy palms
my living heart.
Fill me with desire!
Make of me
a holy psalm,
consecrated host,
eternal fire.
poem by Steven Federle
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Handy Dandy
Handy dandy, controversy surrounds him
He been around the world and back again
Something in the moonlight still hounds him
Handy dandy, just like sugar and candy
Handy dandy, if every bone in his body was broken he would never admit it
He got an all girl orchestra and when he says
Strike up the band, they hit it
Handy dandy, handy dandy
Bridge #1:
You say, what are ya made of?
He says, can you repeat what you said?
Youll say, what are you afraid of?
Hell say, nothin neither live nor dead.
Handy dandy, he got a stick in his hand and a pocket full of money
He says, darling, tell me the truth, how much time I got?
She says, you got all the time in the world, honey.
Handy dandy, handy dandy
Bridge #2:
Hes got that clear crystal fountain
Hes got that soft silky skin
Hes got that fortress on the mountain
With no doors, no windows, no thieves can break in
Handy dandy, sitting with a girl named nancy in a garden feelin kind of lazy
He says, ya want a gun? Ill give you one. she says, boy, you talking crazy.
Handy dandy, just like sugar and candy
Handy dandy, pour him another brandy
Handy dandy, he got a basket of flowers and a bag full or sorrow
He finishes his drink, he gets up from the table he says,
Okay, boys, Ill see you tomorrow.
Handy dandy, handy dandy, just like sugar and candy
Handy dandy, just like sugar and candy
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sitting
Oh Im on my way, I know I am, somewhere not so far
From here
All I know is all I feel right now, I feel the power growing
In my hair
Sitting on my own not by myself, everybodys here with me
I dont need to touch your face to know, and I dont need to
Use my eyes to see
I keep on wondering if I sleep too long, will I always wake
Up the same (or so)?
And keep on wondering if I sleep too long, will I even wake up
Again or something
Oh Im on my way I know I am, but times there were when
I thought not
Bleeding half my soul in bad company, I thank the moon i
Had the strength to stop
Im not making love to anyones wishes, only for that light I see
cause when Im dead and lowered low in my grave, thats gonna
Be the only thing thats left of me
And if I make it to the waterside, will I even find me a boat
(or so)?
And if I make it to the waterside, Ill be sure to write you
Not or something
Oh Im on my way, I know I am, somewhere not so far
From here
All I know is all I feel right now, I feel the power growing
In my hair
Oh life is like a maze of doors and they all open from the
Side youre on
Just keep on pushing hard boy, try as you may
Youre going to wind up where you started from
Youre going to wind up where you started from
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Losses
It was not dying: everybody died.
It was not dying: we had died before
In the routine crashes-- and our fields
Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks,
And the rates rose, all because of us.
We died on the wrong page of the almanac,
Scattered on mountains fifty miles away;
Diving on haystacks, fighting with a friend,
We blazed up on the lines we never saw.
We died like aunts or pets or foreigners.
(When we left high school nothing else had died
For us to figure we had died like.)
In our new planes, with our new crews, we bombed
The ranges by the desert or the shore,
Fired at towed targets, waited for our scores--
And turned into replacements and woke up
One morning, over England, operational.
It wasn't different: but if we died
It was not an accident but a mistake
(But an easy one for anyone to make.)
We read our mail and counted up our missions--
In bombers named for girls, we burned
The cities we had learned about in school--
Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among
The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals;
When we died they said, 'Our casualties were low.'
They said, 'Here are the maps'; we burned the cities.
It was not dying --no, not ever dying;
But the night I died I dreamed that I was dead,
And the cities said to me: 'Why are you dying?
We are satisfied, if you are; but why did I die?'
poem by Randall Jarrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bees
From the hollow trees in their native home
them old fellows cut the honeycomb.
On honey and little white grubs they fed,
'cause them young bees was blackfeller's bread.
That's why they was so mighty and strong
in their native home in Currarong.
An' them old fellers' drink was honey-bul;
honey and water, a coolamon full.
Naked through the bush they went,
an' never knew what sickness meant,
them native bees could do you no harm,
they'd crawl all over your honey-smeared arm.
But them Eyetalian bees, they'd bung
your eyes right up. When we was young
we used to rob their honey-trees,
Savage! they'd fetch your blood, Them bees
would zoom an' zing an' chase a feller
from Bombaderry to Bodalla
Well Old Uncle Ninah, and Billy Bulloo
Old Jacky Mumbulla, King Merriman too,
them fierce old fellers, they're all gone now.
An' the wild honey's still in the gumtree bough.
poem by Roland Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One Is Such A Lonely Number
I never knew when you walked in the room.
I sold my soul to a stranger, an angel face yea.
I never had this kind of sight before,
This kind of vision white, hang on tight yea.
I dont know, girl, youve been around.
Dont you go, dont you let me down.
One is such a lonely number, to make the world go round.
Three is just a little too much to touch, now honey, to make the world go round and round and round.
One is such a lonely number.
I think about what this has done to me.
Im going back to the start, back to school days.
I never had this urge inside of me,
To hear the sound of a heart fill the airwaves.
Theres a love line, its tied to the ground.
Leave you here, never let you down.
One is such a lonely number, to make the world go round.
Three is just a little too much to touch, now honey, to make the world go round and round and round.
One is such a lonely number, to mend a broken heart.
Three is just a little too much to touch, hey honey, to make the world go round and round and round and round.
Theres a love line, its tied to the ground. leave you here, never let you down.
One is such a lonely number, to make the world go round.
Three is just a little too much to touch, now honey, to make the world go round and round and round.
One is such a lonely number, to mend a broken heart.
Three is just a little too much to touch, hey honey, to make the world go round and round and round.
One is such a lonely number, to make the world go round...
song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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