Le Mauvais Moine (The Bad Monk)
Les cloîtres anciens sur leurs grandes murailles
Etalaient en tableaux la sainte Vérité,
Dont l'effet réchauffant les pieuses entrailles,
Tempérait la froideur de leur austérité.
En ces temps où du Christ florissaient les semailles,
Plus d'un illustre moine, aujourd'hui peu cité,
Prenant pour atelier le champ des funérailles,
Glorifiait la Mort avec simplicité.
— Mon âme est un tombeau que, mauvais cénobite,
Depuis l'éternité je parcours et j'habite;
Rien n'embellit les murs de ce cloître odieux.
Ô moine fainéant! quand saurai-je donc faire
Du spectacle vivant de ma triste misère
Le travail de mes mains et l'amour de mes yeux?
The Bad Monk
Cloisters in former times portrayed on their high walls
The truths of Holy Writ with fitting pictures
Which gladdened pious hearts and lessened the coldness,
The austere appearance, of those monasteries.
In those days the sowing of Christ's Gospel flourished,
And more than one famed monk, seldom quoted today,
Taking his inspiration from the graveyard,
Glorified Death with naive simplicity.
— My soul is a tomb where, bad cenobite,
I wander and dwell eternally;
Nothing adorns the walls of that loathsome cloister.
O lazy monk! When shall I learn to make
Of the living spectacle of my bleak misery
The labor of my hands and the love of my eyes?
— Translated by William Aggeler
The Evil Monk
The walls of cloisters on their frescoed lath
Displayed, in pictures, sacred truths of old,
Whose sight would warm the entrails of one's faith
To temper their austerity and cold.
In times when every sowing flowered for Christ
Lived famous monks, now out of memory's reach;
The graveyard for their library sufficed,
And Death was glorified in simple speech.
My soul's a grave, where, evil cenobite,
To all eternity I have been banned.
Nothing adorns this cloister fall of spite.
O idle monk! Say, to what end were planned
The living spectacle of my sad plight,
Love of my eye, or labour of my hand?
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Le Mauvais Moine
the wide cold walls of cloisters, long ago
set forth God's Holy Truth for all to see,
and gazing friars there, with hearts aglow,
rejoiced despite their chill austerity.
then, when the seed of Christ would always grow,
illustrious monks, now lost to memory,
would choose the burial-plot for studio
to chant Death's glory, unaffectedly.
my soul's a tomb, which — wretched friar! — I
have paced since Time began, and occupy;
bare-walled and hateful still my cloister stands.
o slothful monk! when shall I learn to find
in the stark drama of this living mind
joy for mine eyes and work to fit my hands?
— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks
The Bad Monk
On the great walls of ancient cloisters were nailed
Murals displaying Truth the saint,
Whose effect, reheating the pious entrails
Brought to an austere chill a warming paint.
In the times when Christ was seeded around,
More than one illustrious monk, today unknown
Took for a studio the funeral grounds
And glorified Death as the one way shown.
—My soul is a tomb, an empty confine
Since eternity I scour and I reside;
Nothing hangs on the walls of this hideous sty.
O lazy monk! When will I see
The living spectacle of my misery,
The work of my hands and the love of my eyes?
Translated by William A. Sigler
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Bad Monk
On the great walls of ancient cloisters were nailed
Murals displaying Truth the saint,
Whose effect, reheating the pious entrails
Brought to an austere chill a warming paint.
In the times when Christ was seeded around,
More than one illustrious monk, today unknown
Took for a studio the funeral grounds
And glorified Death as the one way shown.
—My soul is a tomb, an empty confine
Since eternity I scour and I reside;
Nothing hangs on the walls of this hideous sty.
O lazy monk! When will I see
The living spectacle of my misery,
The work of my hands and the love of my eyes?
Translated by William A. Sigler
Submitted by Ryan McGuire
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Selfish Shellfish
Deep in the briny sea
Was a monk fish monastery;
A prayerful variety
Of contemplative piety
From gentle soles to trout,
All swimmingly devout,
Where once a pious oyster
Went strolling ‘round the cloister,
And he was quietly grumbling,
His tummy it was rumbling.
He spied a tasty morsel,
A fellow shark monk's dorsal.
He lopped it with his chopper,
And hid it good and proper.
He'd eat it some time later
With peas and beans and ‘tater.
There's no way he would share it,
His stomach wouldn't bear it.
Meanwhile the poor old shark monk
Swims round and round like he's quite drunk.
To swim quite straight he needs all fins;
He twists and swerves, he dives and spins
Into a crazy cork screw loop;
His fin must be saved from the soup.
The other monks are looking
At what the oyster's cooking.
They see he has the shark fin;
They can't allow this shell fish sin
And since he is a sinner,
They confiscate his dinner,
And sew in back on shark monk's back
So he can get himself on track.
The oyster now is pleading;
Forgiveness he is needing.
He's being quite rambunctious;
He's big and plump and scrumptious,
And so the monks decide his fate
Is to be served up on a plate.
So now they all are wine-ing,
They're dancing and they're dining,
In their monastic cellar
On oyster Rockefeller.
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Tomb Is Empty
Face it friend, the tomb is empty; death couldn’t hold Christ, you see,
Although He died for you and me, He’s now on the Throne of Eternity.
The stone, covering where Christ lay, by God’s hand, was rolled away.
In that tomb where Christ was laid, only Christ’s grave clothes stayed,
There He stood, in a body Glorified, Jesus Christ, who bled and died.
Mary was the first one to that tomb, bearing a heart filled with gloom,
She assumed the body was taken, but she would be gladly mistaken,
For, with her heavy heart that day, she would soon hear an angel say,
You will not find Christ Jesus dead, for He rose just like He had said.
She left to tell others not to grieve, for The Lord, they too would see.
Now Mary filled with a joyful heart, from an empty tomb would depart,
Filled with wonder she ran to those, other disciples, to say Christ rose.
Peter began running fast ahead; as they had thought Christ was dead,
Now he ran with much anticipation, enthused by a brand new situation,
Looking inside he just saw clothes, for from the grave Christ had rose.
But all hearts stayed, like the tomb, until Christ entered into that room,
Showing them His hands and side, proving He was The One who died.
Christ would stay for forty days, filling their hearts with joy and praise,
Filing them with His Hope and victory, that will last through all eternity,
Where they shall remain forevermore, with their Savior, Christ our Lord.
(Copyright ©04/2007)
Carmelite
As Death was a-riding out one day,
Across Mount Carmel he took his way,
Where he met a mendicant monk,
Some three or four quarters drunk,
With a holy leer and a pious grin,
Ragged and fat and as saucy as sin,
Who held out his hands and cried:
'Give, give in Charity's name, I pray.
Give in the name of the Church. O give,
Give that her holy sons may live!'
And Death replied,
Smiling long and wide:
'I'll give, holy father, I'll give thee-a ride.'
With a rattle and bang
Of his bones, he sprang
From his famous Pale Horse, with his spear;
By the neck and the foot
Seized the fellow, and put
Him astride with his face to the rear.
The Monarch laughed loud with a sound that fell
Like clods on the coffin's sounding shell:
'Ho, ho! A beggar on horseback, they say,
Will ride to the devil!' -and thump
Fell the flat of his dart on the rump
Of the charger, which galloped away.
Faster and faster and faster it flew,
Till the rocks and the flocks and the trees that grew
By the road were dim and blended and blue
To the wild, wide eyes
Of the rider- in size
Resembling a couple of blackberry pies.
Death laughed again, as a tomb might laugh
At a burial service spoiled,
And the mourners' intentions foiled
By the body erecting
Its head and objecting
To further proceedings in its behalf.
Many a year and many a day
Have passed since these events away.
The monk has long been a dusty corse,
And Death has never recovered his horse.
For the friar got hold of its tail,
And steered it within the pale
Of the monastery gray,
Where the beast was stabled and fed
With barley oil and bread
Till fatter it grew than the fattest friar,
And so in due course was appointed Prior.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The first jazz pianist I heard was Thelonious Monk. My father was listening to an album of his called 'Monk's Dream' almost every day from the time I was born.
quote by Benny Green
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Glory of The Lord
The Glory of The Lord came down, in the midst of men, He was found,
When on this darkened earthly sod, men had beheld the Glory of God.
John the Baptist prepared the way, for the Glory of Christ on that day,
When upon this earth came the Light, displayed by God in men’s sight.
When Christ, by John, was baptized, He by His Father was recognized,
For that moment His Father seized, to say, in His Son He was pleased.
Then The Spirit in the form of a dove, descended on Christ from above,
Acknowledging Christ for everyone, confirming that Jesus was His Son.
Through The Spirit of The Lord, the Father and Son are of one accord,
Healing and teaching He’d proclaim, all authority in His Father’s Name.
Christ had spoke with such authority, coming from The God of Eternity,
For all Authority was given to Christ; The Son who came to give us life.
Even when Christ Jesus had died, His Father in Heaven was Glorified,
As this earth quaked down below, many hearts of men began to know,
This was The Christ God had sent, as He had the Temple curtain rent.
As one soldier said with a fearful nod, surely this was The Son of God.
Although that day Christ was killed, it was God’s Word that He fulfilled,
Being buried by men close to Him, in a tomb in the midst of men of sin.
But, much to the surprise of men, in three days, Christ had risen again.
He was resurrected just as before; Glorified again was Christ our Lord.
And Jesus again appeared to those, who heard from the grave he rose,
Appearing to men in a body Glorified, Christ who on the cross had died.
After forty days Christ would ascend, to Heaven as risen Savior of men,
And the Heavenly Glory was restored, to Jesus Christ, the Eternal Lord.
Spank It
1-hey sped!
2-hey what?
1- what you wanna do?
2- I wanna spank!
1-spank what?
2- spank my little monk!!
1-to the left
2- to the right!
1&2- spank it up and down all night!
1- spank the monk!
2- spank, spank the monk!
1- spank the monk!
1&2- spank spank, the monk!
song performed by by Eagles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Crying Monk
Once there was a monk
with peaceful mind without junk.
At funeral, he usually preached,
pacifying the people with grief,
saying one would leave,
when one's life ceased,
crying and weeping was no need,
Buddha's teaching one must heed,
One's karma would lead
to either heaven or hell indeed.
One day, the monk's mother died sudden death.
He cried violently without catching the breath.
The funeral attendents consoled him,
to stop wailing and tear flowing.
He said it couldn't help,
he now experienced sorrow and grief by himself.
Not Fitting In Despite All Those Years
sometimes you envy
the monk in maroon peacefully
crossing the street
somewhere in Ho Chi Minh
or even an earthen bowl half-filled with water
with a jasmine flower floating
upon a very still world
you like to take the brush and some water colors
to paint all these
but it is a little crowded world you have there
there is simply no time for wasting
it's a fast paced lifestyle
the lifelessness of the to and fro
the unstoppable flow
trying to accomplish almost everything
without meaning.
somewhere in a dream
you wish you were the monk
or even
the jasmine
and then you hit your chest with your fist
convincing yourself that at a certain hour
you can be so foolish
still not fitting in despite all those years
'how can you be a beautiful jasmine in a concrete wall?
how can you be the monk in maroon in a public market full of
swindlers and screaming spice vendors? '
amidst the mess, in the middle of the crowd
how can you be a dream?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It’s About God
It’s all about The Lord, my God, I can say with a confident nod,
The One, Who sits above the sky, directs the path of you and I,
As this world is in His hands, a Truth not everyone understands,
For with God they’re at enmity, blinded by God’s eternal enemy.
Yet this enemy has been overcome, by God’s Only Eternal Son,
But he still deceives each nation, keeping them from Revelation,
God’s Word, which lasts eternally, in which man will gain victory,
When their eyes are open to see, in Christ, they will live eternally.
Friend, today Christ is in control, of every nation and every soul,
My God can overrule Satan’s call, to save lost men from the fall,
But they need to personally believe, in Christ, as Lord to receive,
Eyes to see God’s Truth and Light, to be rescued from the night.
Today God’s desire for everyone, is to come to Truth in His Son,
Truth, that leads us to salvation, found in God’s Holy Revelation,
Today, with Christ in control, God gives us a choice for our soul,
To listen to His Son’s instruction, or follow Satan, to destruction.
It’s about God, not you or me, Who, in Christ, gives life eternally,
It is Christ, The Eternal Creator, Who God sent, to be The Savior;
We serve God or Satan, His foe, and The Lord wants all to know,
In lieu of death, God offers us life, in His Only Son, Jesus Christ.
Easter- The Resurrection of Jesus Christ and the death of Death!
Lord Jesus Christ has risen from his grave!
The tomb on third day was an empty cave;
The Savior of mankind has done the feat;
The Evil One Satan has got defeat.
The empty tomb of Jesus Christ is proof:
The tomb-stone rolled aside, away from roof;
Yes, Jesus resurrected as forecast;
The sting of death is now a thing of past.
The second Adam has won over death;
The fear of death needn’t haunt someone on earth;
Death is not end but henceforth beginning
Of Life eternal- mankind’s new meaning.
Jesus, the Light has dispelled all darkness,
That hinders men from Heaven’s happiness;
Jesus, the Way leads all souls to Heaven;
Our Road to Heaven has been made even.
The heart of love infinite won o’er death;
No more can death frighten a soul on earth;
The King of Love has conquered death ‘per se’;
This is the key message of Easter Day.
Our sinless Messiah is alive still,
After his death on cross upon the hill;
God’s only Son is Savior of mankind;
Confess your sins of body and of mind.
Jesus, the Truth has triumphed o’er Satan;
And Hope is born afresh that beckons man;
Children of Adam and of Eve are saved;
The road to Heaven’s glory, Jesus paved.
Denied is Satan of power of death-
Sigh of relief for all souls upon earth;
The gate of Heaven’s wide open to all;
We all can go to God, despite our fall.
Death entered earth through Adam and Eve’s sin;
Christ’s Resurrection is also our win;
The warrior of love has conquered death;
Jesus has brought about the death of Death!
The awesome death is now man’s friendly-foe!
Death puts an end to every strife and woe;
The cruel thief is welcome guest of man;
Man need not fear death in his whole life-span.
Death is the way to Eternity now;
Death is not dreadful as it was once, wow!
Man’s body got back sanctity once lost-
Rejuvenating truth to mankind, vast.
No tomb can hold a man’s body for long;
Death’s silence will be broken by life’s song;
The risen Christ has opened up all tombs-
Even for dead, unborn babies in wombs!
The future of all mankind lies in Christ;
‘Our faith in God’- the flag, we ought to hoist;
Follow the Cross and Heaven’s Gate is nigh,
When we are made too kings by One, most High.
Like Christ, all Christians too can resurrect;
Let’s keep our soul without sinful defect;
The rod for sins has also been absolved;
Redemption of mankind has been resolved.
The holy cross of Christ has paid the price
Of freedom of man’s every sin and vice;
Awaits the Lord with banquet feast for us;
Let us prepare our soul now for this Bliss.
‘Easter- Risen Christ and death of Death! ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-23-2008
poem by John Celes
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The Great Gambler
The Gambler stopped a monk
dwelling on spiritual plane,
And exclaimed, "Oh! monk
we both are exactly same
So I think we both of us
deserve equal name and fame.
Monk replied, "Gambler! I put
self not a pelf at stake,
And drink bitter poison
for God's sake
Only fool would say our
lives are same
For you a game is life
for me a life is game.''
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
27/12/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Relying On The Holy Spirit
The Holy Spirit is enough for me, as I’ve been sealed for eternity,
Sealed, by The Spirit of Christ, with His guarantee of Eternal Life;
The Spirit, the only teacher I need, as Truth, He helps me to heed,
Guiding me through all my days, for Christ’s Glory and His Praise.
For The Spirit opened my eyes, to discern Truth from Satan’s lies,
Teaching me the Ways of God, while led by Christ’s staff and rod,
Growing in His Truth and Love, assisted by His Spirit, from above,
Teaching me God’s Truth day to day, as I travel life’s Narrow Way.
It’s the work of God’s Holy Spirit, to shed light on Truth as I hear it,
Revealing Truths, that I never heard, from God’s Holy, Living Word.
From The Truth, revealed to men, by God’s Spirit, I am Born Again,
Believing in Christ and Him alone, I became one of God’s very own.
As God’s Spirit led me to believe, The Truth of God I would receive,
Believing the Saving Truth of Christ, I received in the Spirit New Life,
And at that very time and place, my life was changed, by His Grace,
Never again would it be the same; all by the power of Christ’s Name.
It is in Christ, that I now abide, through The Spirit, Who dwells inside,
And in God’s Spirit, I fully rely, in the same power from God on high,
Sent to comfort Children of God, while they journey this earthly sod,
Who will also, soon snatch us away, to Heaven on that Glorious day.
(Copyright ©06/2010)
The Monk and the Tree
At dawn each day, as
the monk awoke upon the polished floor, and
rolled his bedding mat, the Way –
the way things are, the way they follow –
walked its way beside him.
Later, he would take his brush,
the ink-block, paper, and the water-pot
he filled each day with water from the river,
and find a place, among the woods,
or by the river bank; where the Way
would teach him old things, seen as if now new.
Most often, he would sit near an ancient tree
which had so much to teach him;
its trunk and branches gnarled and twisted
with the wisdom of the Way.
The tree was, as great trees are, the most
adventurous of artists: every Spring,
it would put forth new twigs,
as awkward as a newborn deer on
stick-like legs, trying to stand and walk;
the tree would let the Way make it
as awkward, unsymmetrical,
as inartistic as could be…
then slowly through the year, the tree, the Way
would make of this, a new and daring beauty;
and the monk would learn of it,
take up the brush, moisten the ink-block,
and – brush gently swishing black on white –
draw his daily lesson through the year…
and because he was so loved and famed,
connoisseurs of that most ancient art
would beg his paintings; find their breath
held, at his daring; their eyes would learn the Way.
When the monk, now old, joined the Immortals,
his many students gathered near that ancient tree.
They said, the tree did not seem sad at all;
threw out new leaves, seemed to rejoice;
as teachers do, whenever pupils shine.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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St.Gregory's Guest
A TALE for Roman guides to tell
To careless, sight-worn travellers still,
Who pause beside the narrow cell
Of Gregory on the Caelian Hill.
One day before the monk's door came
A beggar, stretching empty palms,
Fainting and fast-sick, in the name
Of the Most Holy asking alms.
And the monk answered, 'All I have
In this poor cell of mine I give,
The silver cup my mother gave;
In Christ's name take thou it, and live.'
Years passed; and, called at last to bear
The pastoral crook and keys of Rome,
The poor monk, in Saint Peter's chair,
Sat the crowned lord of Christendom.
'Prepare a feast,' Saint Gregory cried,
'And let twelve beggars sit thereat.'
The beggars came, and one beside,
An unknown stranger, with them sat.
'I asked thee not,' the Pontiff spake,
'O stranger; but if need be thine,
I bid thee welcome, for the sake
Of Him who is thy Lord and mine.'
A grave, calm face the stranger raised,
Like His who on Gennesaret trod,
Or His on whom the Chaldeans gazed,
Whose form was as the Son of God.
'Know'st thou,' he said, 'thy gift of old?'
And in the hand he lifted up
The Pontiff marvelled to behold
Once more his mother's silver cup.
'Thy prayers and alms have risen, and bloom
Sweetly among the flowers of heaven.
I am The Wonderful, through whom
Whate'er thou askest shall be given.'
He spake and vanished. Gregory fell
With his twelve guests in mute accord
Prone on their faces, knowing well
Their eyes of flesh had seen the Lord.
The old-time legend is not vain;
Nor vain thy art, Verona's Paul,
Telling it o'er and o'er again
On gray Vicenza's frescoed wall.
Still wheresoever pity shares
Its bread with sorrow, want, and sin,
And love the beggar's feast prepares,
The uninvited Guest comes in.
Unheard, because our ears are dull,
Unseen, because our eyes are dim,
He walks our earth, The Wonderful,
And all good deeds are done to Him.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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oh yes, Mr. Shaun, the Bible was not written in English
The Gospel of Christ and, in general,
the Holy Bible are written with the inspiration of God.
The Prophets and the Apostles
have recorded in written form
a portion of the oral teaching of the Old Testament
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
These are the original languages of the Holy Bible from' which all the translations have been derived. God's inspiration is confined to the original languages and utterances, not the many translations. There are 1,300 languages and dialects into which the Holy Bible, in its entirety or in portions, has been
translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated.translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated.
This does not mean that the translations do not convey the meaning of the Bible for spiritual uprightness of the readers in their own language. On the contrary the Bible should be spread and preached to 'all nations'. The missionaries in foreign lands learn the language or the dialect of. the new area into which they bring the Bible and other religious teachings. For example, the missionaries from Constantinople, Saints Cyril and Methodios, sent to Christianize the Slavic peoples in the 9th century, first translated the Bible and the ritual books into the language of the people.
yes, Mr. Shaun, my friend the Bible was not written in English.IT was written in HEBREW, ARAMAIC, and GREEK....
But i like it written in English too, how i wish it were written in such a
language,
with a sense of class
and fashionable disguise,
for without it, how could i ever understand, God,
oh, my, God!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Only Monk Keyed
The monk...
He has the key!
Does that make him,
The only monk keyed who sees?
Inspired by:
Mr. Duncan Wyllie
'Hi Duncan,
Thought I would have some fun with your poem,
'He Sees'.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From An Empty Tomb
Because the tomb is empty, Jesus Christ can fill your heart,
With God’s Spirit deep inside, and new life from Him above.
When this life comes to be, from your life God won’t depart,
And as The Lord you do abide, God fills you with His Love.
Christ’s death is a picture for, a true believer, like you and I,
As we die to our old life of sin, it becomes buried far away.
We’re seated now with The Lord, in the Heavens up on High,
In our heart Christ lives within, and in our life is here to stay,
From the grave He did rise, claiming over death His victory,
Now He reigns on His throne, as He rules over all the earth.
Opening up hearts and eyes, pointing men towards eternity,
Calling sinners to be His own, refining us through new birth.
Now for all Christ Jesus lives, seated on the throne of God,
With all the power as before, He came to give to us his life.
New Life to all He now gives, as we live on this earthly sod.
A life you live forevermore, when you come to Jesus Christ,
All of this from an empty tomb, provided by a Savior’s love,
Christ who died for sinners lost, becoming for us a sacrifice.
And for you there’s still room, in God’s mansion high above,
If you’d only come to the cross, God’s only way to Paradise.
White Hair
i let the years pass on my busy days
this and that
those and there and here
contemplation is a monk and he has not come
my door is open
and the crowd came in. Leaves of years keep
falling like it is caused by the cyclone
of my moving forward onward
this and that and those and there and everywhere
until one moment when the last white hair fell
and then i shudder
to all these and that and those and there and here
and nowhere
and nothing, until the monk in saffron cloth came
asking me
if i am finally going.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jacksons, Monk & Rowe
Sister 4 and brothers 3
Hanging off the family tree
Practising for getting old
Do you want your fortune told
Theyre looking for you high and low
Now theres nowhere for you to go
So youll just have to come out and face the music
Jacksons, monk and rowe
Long ago when we were kids and we cut your hair to bits
As we carried off like spoils the heads wed smash right off
Your dolls
But the wind is changing you know
Are you sure of your friends and your foe
Have you got what it takes to carry it off
Jacksons, monk and rowe
As the sun beats down and life begins to complicate
Will we both incinerate
If we touch that brass name-plate
Messrs. all, noble sirs
Highly paid solicitors
Find enclosed my signed divorce
Sad proceedings you endorse
The burden of pity will show
In the people we used to know
Have you got enough strength to carry it off
Jacksons, monk and rowe
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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