To Either
Back further than
I know, in San
Francisco dwelt a wealthy man.
So rich was he
That none could be
Wise, good and great in like degree.
'Tis true he wrought,
In deed or thought,
But few of all the things he ought;
But men said: 'Who
Would wish him to?
Great souls are born to be, not do!'
One thing, indeed,
He did, we read,
Which was becoming, all agreed:
Grown provident,
Ere life was spent
He built a mighty monument.
For longer than
I know, in San
Francisco lived a beggar man;
And when in bed
They found him dead
'Just like the scamp!' the people said.
He died, they say,
On the same day
His wealthy neighbor passed away.
What matters it
When beggars quit
Their beats? I answer: Not a bit.
They got a spade
And pick and made
A hole, and there the chap was laid.
'He asked for bread,'
'Twas neatly said:
'He'll get not even a stone instead.'
The years rolled round:
His humble mound
Sank to the level of the ground;
And men forgot
That the bare spot
Was like (and was) the beggar's lot.
Forgotten, too,
Was t'other, who
Had reared the monument to woo
Inconstant Fame,
Though still his name
Shouted in granite just the same.
That name, I swear,
They both did bear
The beggar and the millionaire.
That lofty tomb,
Then, honored-whom?
For argument here's ample room.
I'll not debate,
But only state
The scamp first claimed it at the Gate.
St. Peter, proud
To serve him, bowed
And showed him to the softest cloud.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
What Most See As Most Important
What most see as most important not all that it does seem
They swear by fame and money as being good for their self esteem
Material things serve the ego the ego in us all
And the ego is a thing of pride and pride comes before a fall
If money made people happy there would not be an unhappy millionaire
Though many wealthy people do seem burdened by care
'Tis true that greed breeds more greed and much always wants more
And one might say these are things that we've often heard before
Most of the very wealthy people are not laughing all day long
Whilst in the bathroom showering they do not burst into song
So many wealthy people even find it hard to smile
And some of them even wonder is living life worthwhile?
They swear by fame and money as being good for their self esteem
But what most see as most important not all that it does seem.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Beggar To Beggar Cried
'TIME to put off the world and go somewhere
And find my health again in the sea air,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'And make my soul before my pate is bare.-
'And get a comfortable wife and house
To rid me of the devil in my shoes,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'And the worse devil that is between my thighs.'
And though I'd marry with a comely lass,
She need not be too comely -- let it pass,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'But there's a devil in a looking-glass.'
'Nor should she be too rich, because the rich
Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'And cannot have a humorous happy speech.'
'And there I'll grow respected at my ease,
And hear amid the garden's nightly peace.'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'The wind-blown clamour of the barnacle-geese.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Rich Man And Lazarus
A Worldling spent each day
In luxury and state;
While a believer lay,
A beggar at his gate:
Think not the Lord's appointments strange,
Death made a great and lasting change.
Death brought the saint release
From want, disease, and scorn;
And to the land of peace,
His soul, by angels borne,
In Abraham's bosom safely placed,
Enjoys an everlasting feast.
The rich man also died,
And in a moment fell
From all his pomp and pride
Into the flames of hell:
The beggar's bliss from far beheld,
His soul with double anguish filled.
O Abram send, he cries,
But his request was vain
The beggar from the skies
To mitigate my pain!
One drop of water I entreat,
To soothe my tongue's tormenting heat.
Let all who worldly pelf,
And worldly spirits have,
Observe, each for himself,
The answer Abram gave:
Remember, thou wast filled with good,
While the poor beggar pined for food.
Neglected at thy door
With tears he begged his bread;
But now, he weeps no more,
His griefs and pains are fled:
His joys eternally will flow,
While thine expire in endless woe.
Lord, make us truly wise,
To choose thy peoples' lot;
And earthly joys despise,
Which soon will be forgot:
The greatest evil we can fear,
Is to possess our portion here!
poem by John Newton
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Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. John (Chapter 9)
Jesus saw a man, blind since birth;
His disciples asked Him, ‘Rabbi,
By whose sins was the man born blind-
His own sins or that of parents’? ’
So, Jesus answered them, ‘Neither.
It is so that the works of God
Be manifested through the man.
The day is meant for all to work;
The night is for slumber and rest.’
‘While in this world, I am the light.’
Then Jesus spat on ground near-by
And mixed the clay with saliva;
He smeared the clay over man’s eyes
And said, ’ Go wash in Siloam Pool! ’
The man did so and got vision.
The beggar was able to see!
The neighbors saw and then remarked,
‘Isn’t this the beggar who was blind? ’
The beggar replied, ‘Yes, I am! ’
They asked, ‘How were your eyes opened? ’
The man described the whole story.
They asked him, ‘Where is Jesus now?
The beggar said, ‘I do not know.’
They brought the man to Pharisees;
Now Jesus did the miracle,
On Sabbath day and all knew that.
The Pharisees queried the man;
They said, ‘This man is not from God!
He does not keep the Sabbath-day.
How can a sinful man do signs?
They asked the beggar’s opinion;
He told them, ‘He is a prophet! ’
The Jews summoned his parents then
And enquired about their son;
His parents said, ‘He was born blind.’
But they didn’t know how he saw then.
They neither knew the healer’s name;
They told them to ask the beggar.
His parents were afraid of Jews;
If anyone believed Jesus,
And acknowledged Him, Messiah,
They were expelled from synagogue.
They called the beggar once again,
And asked him to give praise to God,
For, Jesus was a sinner great!
The man replied, ‘I do not know
If Jesus is a sinner great;
One thing was true that I was blind
And Jesus helped to make me see, ’
They asked him for more details then;
The beggar lost his cool and said,
‘Do you wish to be disciples? ’
They ridiculed the beggar-man
And said, ‘We are Moses’ disciples!
We don’t know where Jesus is from? ’
The man answered them quite bravely,
‘Isn’t it amazing that although,
You do not know who Jesus is,
Yet, He had made me to see then? ’
‘God does not listen to sinners;
If one’s devout, God listens then.
So far no one had given sight
To man who was blind, since his birth.’
‘If Jesus did not come from God,
He wouldn’t do miracles like this.’
They told the man, ‘You’re born in sin;
So, do not try to preach to us.
They drove the beggar-man away!
Then Jesus heard of incident;
He found the beggar-man and asked,
‘Do you believe in Son of Man? ’
He queried, ‘Who is he, tell me
So that, I may believe in Him.’
Then Jesus said, ‘You have seen Him;
The one speaking to you is He! ’
The man believed and worshipped Him.
Then Jesus said, ‘I came in here,
Into this world for judgment just,
And make ones who couldn’t see, to see,
And those who see become so blind.’
Some Pharisees who heard him said,
‘Surely we’re blind, are we not then? ’
Jesus told them, ‘If you were blind,
You wouldn’t have sins, but as you see,
Your sin remains and you are blind! ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-23-2007
poem by John Celes
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Running To Paradise
As I came over Windy Gap
They threw a halfpenny into my cap.
For I am running to paradise;
And all that I need do is to wish
And somebody puts his hand in the dish
To throw me a bit of salted fish:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
My brother Mourteen is worn out
With skelping his big brawling lout,
And I am running to paradise;
A poor life, do what he can,
And though he keep a dog and a gun,
A serving-maid and a serving-man:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
Poor men have grown to be rich men,
And rich men grown to be poor again,
And I am running to paradise;
And many a darling wit's grown dull
That tossed a bare heel when at school,
Now it has filled a old sock full:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
The wind is old and still at play
While I must hurty upon my way.
For I am running to paradise;
Yet never have I lit on a friend
To take my fancy like the wind
That nobody can buy or bind:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Spaewife
OH, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid to fry.
An’ siller, that ’s sae braw to keep, is brawer still to gi’e.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Hoo a’things come to be whaur we find them when we try,
The lasses in their claes an’ the fishes in the sea.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Why lads are a’ to sell an’lasses a’ to buy;
An’ naebody for dacency but barely twa or three.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Gin death’s as shure to men as killin’ is to kye,
Why God has filled the yearth sae fu’ o’ tasty things to pree.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ the why,
Wi’ mony anither riddle brings the tear into my e’e.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The Humbling / Parable of 'Kentucky Lucky
There once was a man,
Come from Kentucky.
He was the luckiest
Of the lucky.
He was better,
He was best.
He claimed to be higher
Than all the rest.
His favorite pastime
Was revelling in everything
He thought he knew.
Little did he relize,
He was about to recieve his due.
Nothing could happen to him!
He was The Elite.
But as he walked along,
He met a beggar in the street.
Said the beggar,
'A shekel, for a worthy cause? '
But Pride strutted by,
Without a pause.
Pride was a long way off,
When suddenly,
He ground to a stop.
For there stood the beggar,
Draped with downy wings,
And clad in robes of pure white!
Said foolish Pride,
'You are an angel,
And yet you asked of me,
A shekel? '
Then the angel replied,
'For a shekel, I did ask.
Just one little shekel,
'Twas all.'
'But you think it too humble a task.'
'Forget it!
A shekel, I do not need.'
'My Lord and God provides me all.'
As the angel turned to take leave,
Pride soon began to greive.
'Wait! ' cried Pride,
'Don't leave! '
'Come! '
'Eat! '
'Look! '
'I give you my all! '
Said the angel,
'Had you known
Who I really was
When I was poor,
You would not have turned me
From your door.'
'But - But, I! '...
Tried to reason Pride.
'Excuses', said the angel,
'Will not do you well,
Nor shall it justify your sin.'
'Now! , Look not upon earthly things,
But store up for yourslf teasures in Heaven.
'You can do this by serving God,
And not just looking out for yourself,
But by concerning yourself in the interests
of others.'
'But, Pride,
One thing you should remember above all' -
'Is that pride comes, before a fall.'
poem by Macy Dvirnak
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San Francisco Is a Lonely Town
Two happy people on a Greyhound bus,
We came here looking for a life for us,
But the nightlife is her new life and the only thing I've found is,
San Francisco is a lonely town.
Oh, there were good times for a little while,
But now her new friends say I cramp her style,
I guess I'm only in the way now and she don't need me hanging 'round,
San Francisco is a lonely town.
Now she's out there somewhere across the Bay
And she'll be wondering where I am when she gets in today
She'll find I've left her a one-way ticket home
And while she stands there crying all alone
And while the Greyhound keeps on rolling I'll pray the Lord she's found
San Francisco is a lonely town.
San Francisco is a lonely town
song performed by by Charlie Rich, lyrics by Ben Peters from The Fabulous Charlie Rich (September 1969)
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Of Charity
A beggar died last night; his soul
Went up to God, and said:
'I come uncalled, forgive it, Lord;
I died for want of bread.'
Then answered him the Lord of heaven:
'Son, how can this thing be?
Are not my saints on earth? and they
Had surely succoured thee.'
'Thy saints, O Lord,' the beggar said,
'Live holy lives of prayer;
How should they know of such as we?
We perish unaware.
'They strive to save our wicked souls
And fit them for the sky;
Meanwhile, not having bread to eat,
(Forgive!) our bodies die.'
Then the Lord God spake out of heaven
In wrath and angry pain:
'O men, for whom my Son hath died,
My Son hath lived in vain!'
poem by Arthur Symons
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Vain And Careless
Lady, lovely lady,
Careless and gay!
Once when a beggar called
She gave her child away.
The beggar took the baby,
Wrapped it in a shawl,
'Bring her back,' the lady said,
'Next time you call.'
Hard by lived a vain man,
So vain and so proud,
He walked on stilts
To be seen by the crowd.
Up above the chimney pots,
Tall as a mast,
And all the people ran about
Shouting till he passed.
'A splendid match surely,'
Neighbours saw it plain,
'Although she is so careless,
Although he is so vain.'
But the lady played bobcherry,
Did not see or care,
As the vain man went by her
Aloft in the air.
This gentle-born couple
Lived and died apart.
Water will not mix with oil,
Nor vain with careless heart.
poem by Robert Graves
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The Beggar And The Angel
An angel burdened with self-pity
Came out of heaven to a modern city.
He saw a beggar on the street,
Where the tides of traffic meet.
A pair of brass-bound hickory pegs
Brought him his pence instead of legs.
A murky dog by him did lie,
Poodle, in part, his ancestry.
The angel stood and thought upon
This poodle-haunted beggar man.
'My life is grown a bore,' said he,
'One long round of sciamachy;
I think I'll do a little good,
By way of change from angelhood.'
He drew near to the beggar grim,
And gravely thus accosted him:
'How would you like, my friend, to fly
All day through the translucent sky;
To knock at the door of the red leaven,
And even to enter the orthodox heaven?
If you would care to know this joy,
I will surrender my employ,
And take your ills, collect your pelf,
An humble beggar like yourself.
For ages you these joys may know,
While I shall suffer here below;
And in the end we both may gain
Access of pleasure from my pain.'
The stationary vagrant said,
'I do not mind, so go ahead.'
The angel told the heavenly charm,
He felt a wing on either arm;
'Good-day,' he said, 'this floating's queer
If I should want to change next year--?'
'Pull out that feather!' the angel said,
'The one half black and the other half red.'
The cripple cried, 'Before you're through
You may get fagged, and if you do,--'
The angel superciliously--
'My transformed friend, don't think of me.
I shall be happy day and night,
In doing what I think is right.'
'So so,' the feathered beggar said,
'Good-bye, I am just overhead.'
* * * * *
The angel when he grasped the dish,
Began to criticize his wish.
The seat was hard as granite rocks,
His real legs were in the box.
His knees were cramped, his shins were sore,
The lying pegs stuck out before.
In vain he clinked the dish and whined.
The passers-by seemed deaf and blind.
As pious looking as Saint Denis,
An urchin stole his catch-penny.
And even the beggar's drab-fleeced poodle
Began to know him for a noodle.
'It has an uncelestial scent,
The clothing of this mendicant;'
He cried, 'That trickling down my spine
Is anything but hyaline.
This day is like a thousand years:
I'd give an age of sighs and tears
To see with his confectioned grin
One cherub sitting on his chin.
That cripple was by far too sly--
I wish he'd tumble from the sky,
That things might be as they were before;
I really cannot stand much more!'
* * * * *
The beggar in the angel's guise,
Rose far above the smoky skies.
But being a beggar, never saw
The charm of the compelling law
That turned the swinging universe:
'Twas gloomy as an empty purse.
Often with heaven in his head,
He blundered on a planet dead.
And when with an immortal fuss,
He singed his wings at Sirius.
He plucked the feather with his teeth,
The charm was potent and beneath,
He saw the turmoil of the way
Grown wilder at the close of day,
With the sad poodle, can in hand,
The angel still at the old stand.
'My friend,' said the angel, hemming and humming,
'Truly I thought you were never coming.'
'That's an unhandsome thing to say,
Seeing I've only been gone a day.
But there's nothing in all your brazen sky
To match the cock of that poodle's eye.
Take your dish and give me my wings,
'Tis but a fair exchange of things.'
* * * * *
The beggar felt his garment's rot,
The horn ridge of each callous spot;
He clinked his can and was content;
His poverty was permanent.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Village Mystery
The woman in the pointed hood
And cloak blue-gray like a pigeon's wing,
Whose orchard climbs to the balsam-wood,
Has done a cruel thing.
To her back door-step came a ghost,
A girl who had been ten years dead,
She stood by the granite hitching-post
And begged for a piece of bread.
Now why should I, who walk alone,
Who am ironical and proud,
Turn, when a woman casts a stone
At a beggar in a shroud?
I saw the dead girl cringe and whine,
And cower in the weeping air--
But, oh, she was no kin of mine,
And so I did not care!
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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If You Have Money Problems
If you have money problems your problems are not small
And that money speaks all languages that goes for one and all
But that money cannot buy happiness that seems so very true
And to the battlers who keep keeping on great credit must be due,
There are so many paupers for every millionaire
And for millions of people life must seem so unfair
It truly is a rat race in the bigger World out there
And people with compassion have never been so rare,
The poor keep getting poorer whilst the wealthy more wealthy grow
And like tis said how one half live the other half would not know
And an egalatarian World from us seems far away
And even in so called wealthy Nations poverty is rife today
And if you have money problems and are in financial strife
then you are made to struggle with the cross you bear in life.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Beggar
The thought of great social solitude,
The sight of everyone having an attitude,
Being the neglected in the maltittude,
The pity viewed in verisimilitude,
The life of a beggar
His clothes torn and stomarch empty,
Always dancing to their tune,
Exploited and greatly tortured,
His presence mean nothing to them,
Their presence mean everything to him
He walks door to door for livelihood,
They dont walk to him to give life,
He is seeking life everyday,
Yet life does not seek him even one day
The beggar with rolling tears
Life like that of a beggar,
Love like that of a life,
Begging for the conditional love,
Do I have to beg your love?
Like the beggar beg for life,
My determinism flashes through,
Im breaking the steel bars my love,
Loosening the metalic chains off,
Love is love, not to be begged for,
Love is love, not to use each other,
Love is love, no need for persuation,
For so long it is love,
I will never be begging anymore,
Such love will be deceit,
Such truth will be fake,
And such commitment will be futile
Such a lover will be like a beggar,
Such a beloved will be like a lifegiver,
And such their love will be a shame
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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The seer and the beggar.
Ego battered, bereaved of kith and kin,
Bereft of worldly things, a beggar dies
With no wish, no curse and no regrets;
That amounts to detachment of the world.
Ego nursed, blessed with devotees,
Proud of being humble, can a seer die
With no wish, no curse and no regrets,
To confirm to detachment of the world?
More than the seer, it is the beggar
Who is fit to dispense with rebirth.
Can you follow the path of the beggar?
Is there salvation sans humiliation?
A seer is proud he leads you to God.
You are proud you follow him to God.
You both want to leave your names behind.
With the love for the world after your exit,
Can you hope that you avoid rebirth?
26.03.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Coronation
At the king's gate the subtle noon
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun;
Into the drowsy snare too soon
The guards fell one by one.
Through the king's gate, unquestioned then,
A beggar went and laughed, 'This brings
Me chance, at last, to see if men
Fare better being kings.'
The king sat bowed beneath his crown,
Propping his face with listless hand;
Watching the hour-glass sifting down
Too slow its shining sand.
'Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?'
The beggar turned, and pitying,
Replied, like one in dream, 'Of thee,
Nothing. I want the king.'
Uprose the king, and from his head
Shook off the crown, and threw it by.
'O man, thou must have known,' said he,
'A greater king than I.'
Through all the gates, unquestioned then,
Went king and beggar hand in hand.
Whispered the king, 'Shall I know when
Before
his
throne I stand?'
The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste
Were wiping from the king's hot brow
The crimson lines the crown had traced.
'This is his presence now.'
At the king's gate, the crafty noon
Unwove its yellow nets of sun;
Out of their sleep in terror soon
The guards waked one by one.
'Ho here! Ho There! Has no man seen
The king?' The cry ran to and fro;
Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween,
The laugh that free men know.
On the king's gate the moss grew gray;
The king came not. They called him dead;
And made his eldest son one day
Slave in his father's stead.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Who Am I?
Who am I on this universe?
Blessings for others or simple curse
I rely on friend's observation and compile
Chose a path and pause meanwhile
Am I biggest beggar, bloger or server?
None of the above yet prove as a good writer
I read many articles and come across
Appreciate others but feel the loss
Why am I not like others?
How do they excel and come across?
I have left this to anybody's guess
As there are lot many questions to face
Let the poets claim originality?
Go on roof top and acclaim personality
Also sing in praise about contents and quality
But alas! The beggar soul betrays capacity
Ideas are definitely coming from some one
Built nicely and interwoven from any one
So real beggars are fortunate
At least they get some cash to relate
As the beggars collect their share in the evening
The opportunist poets get lions share in the morning
Get no where and bogged down when real time comes
No one may appreciate it fully when approaches time to welcome
I am clear as far as writing is concerned
I am not at all disturbed at what others do and remain discerned
Nature, sky and stars remain there from the origin of universe
We can pick many things from them of course
There is no shame in frank admission
As to reach out to people is our only mission
Now it matters less who reaches out first
They have built and have confidence with trust
I shall repeat and endorse if some ideas are really worthwhile
It may not be my original work to speak fairly about style
Yet some purpose is served to build love and trust
That is all we are here for and that vision is must
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Two Graves
First Ghost
To sepulcher my mouldy bones
I bough a pile of noble stones,
And half a year a sculptor spent
To hew my marble monument,
The stateliest to rear its head
In all this city of the dead.
And generations passing through
Will gape, and ask: What did he do
To earn this tomb so rich and rare,
In Attic grace beyond compare?
How was his life in honour spent,
To worthy this proud monument?
What did I do" Well, nothing much.
'Tis true I had the Midas touch.
A million pounds I made wherewith
To glorify the name: John Smith;
Yet not a soul wept for me when
Death raft me from my fellow men.
My sculptor wins undying fame,
While I, who paid, am just a name.
Second Ghost
A wooden cross surveys my bones,
With on it stenciled: Peter Jones.
And round it are five hundred more;
(A proper job did old man War!)
So young they were, so fresh, so fit,
So hopeful - that's the hell of it.
The old are sapped and ripe to die,
But in the flush of Spring was I.
I might have fathered children ten,
To come to grips with sterling men;
And now a cross in weeds to rot,
Is all to show how fierce I fought.
The old default, the young must pay;
My life was wasted, thrown away.
While people gladden, to forget
The bitterness of vein regret,
With not a soul to morn for me
My skull grins up in mockery.
. . . Pale crosses greet the grieving stars,
And always will be - War and Wars.
poem by Robert William Service
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A Word To The Unwise
Charles Main, of Main & Winchester, attend
With friendly ear the chit-chat of a friend
Who knows you not, yet knows that you and he
Travel two roads that have a common end.
We journey forward through the time allowed,
I humbly bending, you erect and proud.
Our heads alike will stable soon the worm
The one that's lifted, and the one that's bowed.
You in your mausoleum shall repose,
I where it pleases Him who sleep bestows;
What matter whether one so little worth
Shall stain the marble or shall feed the rose?
Charles Main, I had a friend who died one day.
A metal casket held his honored clay.
Of cyclopean architecture stood
The splendid vault where he was laid away.
A dozen years, and lo! the roots of grass
Had burst asunder all the joints; the brass,
The gilded ornaments, the carven stones
Lay tumbled all together in a mass.
A dozen years! That taxes your belief.
Make it a thousand if the time's too brief.
'Twill be the same to you; when you are dead
You cannot even count your days of grief.
Suppose a pompous monument you raise
Till on its peak the solar splendor blaze
While yet about its base the night is black;
But will it give your glory length of days?
Say, when beneath your rubbish has been thrown,
Some rogue to reputation all unknown
Men's backs being turned-should lift his thieving hand,
Efface your name and substitute his own.
Whose then would be the monument? To whom
Would be the fame? Forgotten in your gloom,
Your very name forgotten-ah, my friend,
The name is all that's rescued by the tomb.
For memory of worth and work we go
To other records than a stone can show.
These lacking, naught remains; with these
The stone is needless for the world will know.
Then build your mausoleum if you must,
And creep into it with a perfect trust;
But in the twinkling of an eye the plow
Shall pass without obstruction through your dust.
Another movement of the pendulum,
And, lo! the desert-haunting wolf shall come,
And, seated on the spot, shall howl by night
O'er rotting cities, desolate and dumb.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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San Francisco
I, I know what you did
Like a boy of summer gives his first kiss
Love, is dancing on my finger
He got to the heart of the matter and lingered
Now I'm walking with the living
I always liked Steinbeck and those old men whistling
We're back, we're back in San Francisco
We're back and you tell me I'm home
Talking in the Mission
Over coffee this is my utopia
Then I'll be your lady
As the ocean rises, the sun is fading
We're back, we're back in San Francisco
We're back, we're back in San Francisco
We're back, we're back in san fran
And now I feel the ever after
Over red wine on the eve of summer
The buzz, the buzz of the city
As we settle in it's majesty
I, I know what you did
Like a boy of summer gives his first kiss
We're back, we're back in San Francisco
We're back and you tell me I'm home
You tell me I am home
You tell me I am home
You tell me I am home
Back in San Francisco
And I know what you did in San Francisco
I know what you did in San Francisco
San Francisco
song performed by by Vanessa Carlton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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