From Fame to Fowls
Mr Blenkinsop and I
Are much concerned to learn
That, somewhere in the further sky,
A frightful heat-belt lurks on high,
Where torrid ethers burn.
And I and Mr Blenkinsop
We take it rather hard,
Because all work will have to stop
Henceforth within the small work-shop
In Blenkinsop's back-yard.
For many years we labored there,
In Blenkinsop's back-yard.
And, in our town, plain folk would stare
And mutter: 'That's the learned pair
Who'll win the world's regard.'
We planned a gadget in that shop
To journey to the moon;
And deferential friends would stop
To speak to me and Blenkinsop
And ask of our balloon.
We'd built the thing of bits and scraps,
And loomed amongst our peers
As very scientific chaps;
Tho' privily we meant, perhaps,
To dodge the trip for years,
If not for e'er. But, while remained
The possibility,
Vast oodles of renown we gained,
And fulsome praise our townspeople rained
On Blenkinsop and me.
Alas for me and Blenkinsop!
Our name is mud in town;
For we have come an awful flop.
Gone is the kudos of our shop
And gone our vast renown.
Now I and Blenkinsop, my pard,
Walk 'mid derisive howls;
Although his lot is not so hard,
For in the Blenkinsop back-yard
Our ship now shields his fowls.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Shop, she shops!
Once she constantly smiled
Bought cloths and jewelry that gave her style
Shop, shop, shop
She shopped till she dropped
Shop, shop, shop
She just could not seem to stop
Her credit was on top
Her spending way rocket up
She paid with cash or credit card
This Lady was absolutely shopping mad
Shoping malls!
Markets stalls!
Shoes, clothing, and handbags she bought all year long
Spend, spend and spend daily was her beloved song
Shop, shop, shop
She now shops like a flop
Shop, shop, shop
This lady has now put a stop
Today is different shopping expedition
This time spending with supervision
No more that crazy spending addiction
Her credit card is cut
Her goods seized, the whole lot
Today she spends, her pockets hurt!
She has become street wise
Haggling with each price
She has become precise
About what she needs and not what is nice
Shop, shop, shop
She shops like a flop
Shop, shop, shop
Her spending has taken a big drop!
This lady has now put a stop to shop!
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Walk To The Shop
I’m going for a walk
I’m going for a walk to the shop
I’m walking to the shop
I sweat as I walk to the shop
I’m walking to the sweat shop
I’m working at the sweat shop
I work at a sweat shop
I’ll be back in an hour
I’ll be back in hours
I’ll be back in 16 hours
I’ll be back from work in 16 hours
I’ll be back from my 16 hour shift
I work a 16 hour shift
I need to go to the supermarket
I need to go to the supermarket to buy food
I need to buy food
I need to spend my wages on food
I need to spend all of my wages on food
All of my wages is just a few pence
For my wages I only have a few pence
I only get paid a few pence
I’ll be home soon
I’ll be back to my home soon
I’ll be back to my house in this town soon
I’ll be back to my house in this shanty town soon
I’ll be back to my hut in this shanty town soon
I live in this shanty town
I live in a shanty town
I am wearing my pair of Nike running shoes
I have a pair of Nike running shoes
I have lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I am surrounded by lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I make lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I make Nike running shoes
I make your Nike running shoes.
I work in a sweat shop
I work a 16 hour shift
I only get paid a few pence
I live in a shanty town
I make your Nike running shoes
Junk
Motor cars, handle bars
Bicycles for two
Broken hearted jubilee
Parachutes, army boots
Sleeping bags for two
Sentimental jamboree
Buy buy
Says the sign in the shop window
Why why
Says the in junk the yard
Candlesticks, building bricks
Some old and new
Memories for you and me
Buy buy
Says the sign in the shop window
Why why
Says the in junk in the yard
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Junk
Junk
Motorcars, handlebars, bicycles for two
Brokenhearted jubilee
Parachutes, army boots, sleeping bags for two
Sentimental jamboree
Buy, buy says the sign in the shop window
Why, why says the junk in the yard
Ya da da da da la da da da
Buy, buy says the sign in the shop window
Why, why says the junk in the yard
Ya da da da da da da la la la la la
Candlesticks, building bricks,
Something old and new
Memories for you and me
Words and music by paul mccartney
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Zephyr Hart
If you want your car repaired or want to fit an engine part
It well might pay you to ring Zephyr Hart
He's not hard to pay and is good at what he do
And he will be quite happy to help you.
Come rain or shine you will find him working hard
In his work shop a tin shed in his back yard
Working on engines and repairing brakes and punctured tyres
The work he does great character requires.
My datsun it is showing it's years in wear
And has rust spots on the body here and there
But despite all this the old car still survive
And it's thanks to Zephyr that it's still fit to drive.
In a mechanic's life there's lots of heavy toil
His hands and work clothes stained with grease and oil
It's not the type of work that many would enjoy
And there's easier ways to earn one's living by.
And though in the Yarra Ranges motor mechanics are not rare
And there's cars aplenty for them to repair
But for a car tune up or to fit an engine part
At a most competitive price your best bet Zephyr Hart.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Fence
Around my yard there stands a fence
It keeps the outside world out and I safe within
Though the structure is not that immense
It does the purpose as which it was built for and meant.
Neighbors and strangers it keeps out of my yard
Along with their trash and pets which does it harm
I am my yards protector, landscaper and guard
As it is my beauty, and not a trash bin or someone's farm.
My fence allows and welcomes the sunshine and the wind
Mother nature is always welcomed to visit and roam
The squirrels and the birds are always welcomed in
And welcome are the bee's with the pollen they've sewn.
Around my yard there stands a fence
It protects my yard from the enemies about
Too me it makes such perfect sense
Better to stop the entering, than for me to scream and shout.
As my yard is not the playground for a child to use
Or a shortcut for many persons to walk or run
As it it my yard which I won't neglect or abuse
And the work that I do on it, it will never be done.
In the summertime there will be plants to raise
And the leaves to rake when it becomes the fall
While hoping mother nature with me will always stay
And because of my fence, it will protect it all.
Around my yard there stands a fence
It protects and guards my yard everyday of the year
To others though it might cause an offense
As though it tells the people, not to come over here.
It is my yard which is mine to raise it like a child
To cut it and groom it and keep it nice for all to see
But truly it is GOD'S acre, which I saved from the wild
Then through the wonder of nature, in life I do believe.
So as days will come you will see myself in my yard
And sometimes you might see me nervous and tense
I hate clutter and trash so from there it is always barred
Also to protect my yard and myself, is my mighty fence.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Devils Been Busy
While youre strolling down the fairway
Showing no remorse
Glowing from the poisons
Theyve sprayed on your golf course
While youre busy sinking birdies
And keeping your scorecard
The devils been busy in your back yard
Steaming down the highway
With your trucks of toxic waste
Where you gonna hide it
In the outer space?
You dont know what youre doing
Or what you have to guard
The devils been busy in your back yard
Sometimes you think youre crazy
But you know youre only mad
Sometimes youre better off not knowing
How much youve been had
You see your second cousin
Wasted in a fight
You say he had it coming
You couldnt do it right
Youre in a western movie, playing the part
The devils been busy in your back yard
Sometimes they say youre wicked
But you know that cant be bad
Sometimes youre better off not knowing
Itll only make you sad
Theyre coming down picadilly
Dripping at the dash
Wasting sticky willy
Covering him with their cash
They just might not have noticed, theyve been beating him so hard
And the devils been busy in your back yard
Devils been busy in your back yard
Devils been busy in your back yard
song performed by by George Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Video Shop
The local factorys been pulled down
By an overseas corporation
Now all of my brothers are looking around
For alternative occupation
I was sitting by the telly with my brother, kenny
When suddenly the penny dropped
While all of my brothers are sitting at home
Ive got a bank loan and Ive opened up my very own
Video shop
Video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
Comedy and tragedy are all sitting on my shelf
And if youve got a fantasy
For a small rental fee
You can set yourself free
At my video shop
At my video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
At the video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
From all of the depression in you head
Caused by all the living in the red
Ive got a bootleg version of citizen kane
A second hand copy of psycho
Ive taped them off the telly so you shouldnt complain
And theres no guarantee youll get your money back again
From my video shop
My video shop
If you want to escape, I can rent you a tape
To relieve your situation
If you feel a bit low, I got a good peep show
cos everybody knows almost anything goes
At my video shop
At my video shop
One fifty a day and Ill fly, fly you away
Its nothing to pay to fly far, far away
I can help you through that lonely night
Ive got technicolour, black and white
I can guide you through those empty days
Make you smile and take your blues away
O let me fly you away
At my video shop
Fly, fly you away
Another factorys been knocked down
But nobody ever complains
And all of my brothers are customers now
We all play video games
I can see it in the eyes of all the lonely wives
If theyre bored and they feel like a change
I do sales, rentals, even a swop
And if you feel like a change, well it can all be arranged
At my video shop
At my video shop
At my video shop
At my video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
And everyone who walks in through that door
Has got something that theyre looking for
At my video shop
At my video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
At the video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
Oh, at the video shop
Oh, at the video shop
Oh, at the video shop
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
From an Upper Verandah
What happier haunt could the gods allot
For loftiest musing to sage or bard?—
Yet I would that this upper verandah did not
Look down on my beautiful Neighbour's Back-yard!
I stir the afflatus: Descend, O ye Nine!
Let the crystalline gates of the soul be unbarred!
No. My thoughts will keep running in one fixed line—
The clothes-line that hangs in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
Let me gaze on the hills; let me think of the sea;
Of the dawn rosy-fingered—the night silver-starred:—
(What dear little feet must the owner's be
Of those stockings that hang in my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Let me tune my soul to a measure devout:—
Ah, the musical mood is all jangled and jarred,
While things with borders, and things without,
Keep flutt'ring down there in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
Are the True and the Good and the Beautiful dead,
That I win not one gleam of Pierian regard?
(Does she suffer, I wonder, from cold in the head?—
Such a lot of mouchoirs in my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Comes the fit. While it sways me, high themes would I sing!
Prometheus! Achilles! Have at you! En grade!
Alexander the Great—(oh that I were a string
On that apron hung out in my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
I will shut my eyes fast—I have hit it at last,
Now my purest Ideals flit by me unmarred;
And odours of memory rise from the past,
(And an odour of suds from my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Ah, yes! when the eyelids together are prest,
Every vestige of earth we throw off and discard.
(These are flannels, I think. Is she weak in the chest?—
There! I'm looking again at my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Since the Muses back out, let Philosophy in:
Let me ponder its problems cold and hard.
Ah! Philosophy dies in a celibate grin
At that bolster-case down in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
Oh shame on my rapidly silvering hairs!
Oh shame on this veteran battered and scarred!
I to be witched with these frilled—affairs!
Confound my neighbour! Confound her Back-yard!
Why seek for the blossoms of Auld Lang Syne,
When the boughs where they budded are blasted and charred?—
Faugh! the whole concern's too alkaline—
It's washing day in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
poem by James Brunton Stephens
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Builders
Behold, I built a fowlhouse in my yard!
Two months agone the great work was begun,
And ev'ry eventide I labored hard,
What time my daily office grind was done.
'Tis to my industry a monument,
The fowls, my wife and I are well content.
Indeed, I built a fowlhouse. Gods forbid
Although I made it, floor and roof and wall
That I should boast about this thing I did.
I mention it most modestly withal.
Just these two hands, this brain were all I had.
I built it on my own, and I am glad.
And, as I toiled at eve, my wife would come,
The candle, nails and divers tools to hold;
And when I swore because I hit my thumb
She did not hang the contract up to scold,
Nor move a vote of censure, and maintain
The thing should be pulled down and built again.
She is my helpmate, both in name and deed;
Nor does she deem it policy to nag.
And when she saw my wounded finger bleed
She bound it up, most tenderly, with rag.
Thus, for one end, did both of us conspire
To have a fowlhouse was our joint desire.
And, when I went about my work in town,
No secret vision filled my day with dread
That she would pull the whole contraption down
And start a building of her own instead.
I knew, indeed, she would take care to leave
Unharmed my handiwork of yester-eve.
You'll note - if you're at all intelligent
Our system was simplicity itself:
We wanted something, that was evident,
To wit, a fowlhouse, perches, and a shelf
For nests. I got some timber, tools and nails,
And set to work. This method seldom fails.
And when I'd done, and saw it stand complete,
With triumph was I most absurdly filled.
A tiny thing, enclosing ten square feet,
That any deft suburbanite might build
Yet was my soul with satisfaction seized;
And, on the whole, I think the fowls were pleased.
Now that my hens are well and snugly housed,
And given cosy nests in which to lay,
It seems, their gratitude has been aroused:
Our egg supply increases ev'ry day.
And yet, I vow, when I their house designed
No sordid thought of eggs was in my mind.
Maybe I seem a trifle too inclined
To brag about a very simple feat.
Yet strange ideas crowd into my mind
When I sit down to scan my morning sheet,
And read of other builders who should be
GOLIATHS in comparison with me.
These mighty undertakings, I've no doubt
Vast railway lines that span a continent,
And other matters that I read about
Are apt to cause much wordy argument.
Yet I, who calmly built a house for fowls,
Can feel contempt for these unseemly howls.
For, when they move to build, unholy shouts
Go up to Heaven from opponent throats;
The Ins are ever brawling with the Outs;
And both are scheming sordidly for votes.
They build not as true builders, such as I,
Who build for love, and scorn the trade they ply.
Thank God, my wife and I are well content
In doing things to win a modest name
Without the aid of Party Government
And all the meanness of that paltry Game.
Honest endeavor, and some boards and nails,
Pride in our work - this method seldom fails.
I am so diffident, I hardly care
To give advice to statesmen evident,
And yet, on this occasion, shall I dare
To offer them some small encouragement:
Let them forego their wrangles, curses, howls,
And strive to build a little place for fowls.
'Tis sheer presumption, surely, to compare
Myself with statesmen in high honor decked;
Yet do I feel emboldened to declare
That I am more deserving of respect.
They, by their brawls, a mighty work have marred;
I built an honest fowlhouse in my yard.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Buried Between two Trees
Back home again
in the yard
I used to play in
So many memories here
of days long ago
for memories, I hold dear
Saw the grave of old shep
the dog I loved so
in this yard, he followed me every step
He's buried between two trees you see
buried him in my brand new quilt
and my mother was really mad at me
In this yard, I would bathe him
many years before
his old eyes grew dim
His bed layed by the cellar door
with tall trees, all around him
oh memories, of the dog I adored
Memories of the time
that the meter man came
he hit old shep, that wasn't very kind
This old yard, was all shep had
he guarded it with his life
when he died, I was very sad
This old yard, now has in it,
a lot of beautiful flowers, all round
between two trees, he wouldn't mind a bit.
Old Town Types No. 23 - Little Miss Mix
In a rather tiny building at the bottom of the street,
With a green door and a window small and very neat,
With its shock of beads and button-cards, cottons, bones and braid,
Miss Mix, the village dressmaker, plied a modest trade.
The front shop, with its counter, was a miniature affair,
And trivial the business that was conducted there.
But the back room - the workroom - 'Hours from Nine to Six' -
Was a vestal shrine whose priestess was little Miss Mix.
Tho' man had never gazed within, the sanctum held, 'twas known,
A wealth of female mysteries, for female eyes alone:
Dress-dummies, skirt-stands, a host of fashion fads,
Hip improvers, buckram shapes, curious bustle-pads.
But Mr Mole, who owned a store, and sold things ready-made,
Was oft-times strangely bitter over Miss Mix and her trade.
'A tittle-tattle factory!' said he. 'A gossip-shop!
With its babbling cotton-biters. Why, the thing had ought to stop.'
And many another male declared that Mr Mole was right -=
Chiefly husbands - for the charges of Miss Mix were never light.
And, tho' they talked in that back room of fashion, style and cost,
Many characters were shattered, many reputations lost
As scraps of spiteful sibilants came drifting thro' that door:
'A hussy dear!' ... 'Such goings on!' ... 'And I heard something more.' ...
And many an unsuspecting wench was hounded to her doom
In mousey little Miss Mix's little back room.
When last I saw the old town, nigh twenty years ago,
Its street was little altered, its tempo still was slow;
But where the wee dressmaker's shop in old days used to stand
A 'modern' shop-front glittered, very 'arty,' very grand.
Now Miss Mix was known as Sarah in the days when I was young,
And her trade was 'Plain Dressmaking'; but now a shingle swung
All done in fancy wrought-iron, with twirls and scrolls and tricks:
'Costumiere. Parisian Modes. Direction: Sara Miques.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Loving Fun
Old lady
Age - 65
Old man
Age - 80
Booth are
Begger's...
shop to shop...
Begein
On the road...
shop to shop
They are not
Husband and wife...
They are
Friends
To companian...!
But;
Booth are
Beger's
Enjoy the life
Loving fun...! !
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Coffe Shop
I am just a lousy burn
Searching for the unknown crumb
The crumb the crumb
Something or someone to come
Come along illuminate my lust
Combust
Confucius might have been confused
And Buddha might have blown a fuse
Jooze the muse
Meet me at the coffee shop
We can dance like Iggy Pop
Another go in the parking lot
Frewak the cheek on your hotspot
Back and forth my body's jerking
Will to thrill will not stop working
Work and work
I'll take you on a honeymoon
Jumping on a bed in a hotel room
The room the groom
Meet me at the coffee shop
We can dance like Iggy Pop
Another go in the parking lot
Frewak the cheek on your hotspot
song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Anecdote For Fathers
By the late W. W. (of H.M. Inland Revenue Service).
And is it so? Can Folly stalk
And aim her unrespecting darts
In shades where grave Professors walk
And Bachelors of Arts?
I have a boy, not six years old,
A sprite of birth and lineage high:
His birth I did myself behold,
His caste is in his eye.
And oh! his limbs are full of grace,
His boyish beauty past compare:
His mother's joy to wash his face,
And mine to brush his hair!
One morn we strolled on our short walk,
With four goloshes on our shoes,
And held the customary talk
That parents love to use.
(And oft I turn it into verse,
And write it down upon a page,
Which, being sold, supplies my purse
And ministers to age.)
So as we paced the curving High,
To view the sights of Oxford town
We raised our feet (like Nelly Bly),
And then we put them down.
'Now, little Edward, answer me'—
I said, and clutched him by the gown—
'At Cambridge would you rather be,
Or here in Oxford town?'
My boy replied with tiny frown
(He'd been a year at Cavendish),
'I'd rather dwell in Oxford town,
If I could have my wish.'
'Now, little Edward, say why so;
My little Edward, tell me why.'
'Well, really, Pa, I hardly know.'
'Remarkable!' said I:
'For Cambridge has her 'King's Parade,'
And much the more becoming gown;
Why should you slight her so,' I said,
'Compared with Oxford town?'
At this my boy hung down his head,
While sterner grew the parent's eye;
And six-and-thirty times I said,
'Come, Edward, tell me why?'
For I loved Cambridge (where they deal—
How strange!—in butter by the yard);
And so, with every third appeal,
I hit him rather hard.
Twelve times I struck, as may be seen
(For three times twelve is thirty-six),
When in a shop the Magazine
His tearful sight did fix.
He saw it plain, it made him smile,
And thus to me he made reply:—
'At Oxford there's a Crocodile;
And that's the reason why.'
Oh, Mr. Editor! my heart
For deeper lore would seldom yearn,
Could I believe the hundredth part
Of what from you I learn.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hard Times For An Honest Man
One man does his work
Hes not satisfied not at all
Feels like that hes being used
His self respect starts to fall
His frustration
Runnin very very high he takes it out
On the ones he loves, because its safe
And who they gonna tell
And he hates that cold-bloodedness
That runs inside
Chorus:
Oh yes
Its hard times, for an honest man
Very very hard times
Hard times, for an honest man
Very very hard times
Sister,
Shes got a lot of pride
You can see it when she walks into the room
But shes young
And shes unaware
Of what a brutal world can do to you
So she loves a man
He lies like a dog
Tears her little world all apart
So the walls go up
For the rest of her days
And there aint no man can touch this
Girls heart
Chorus:
Oh yes.
Its hard times, for an honest man
Very very hard times
Hard times, for an honest man
Very very hard times
So we walk
From the front porch to the back yard
Just to laugh and say hello and
Say goodbye
But some days are hard, like a
Soldiers steel-toed boots
And the rent we pay to stay here
Gets high
Chorus:
Oh yes.
Its hard times, for an honest man
Very very hard times
Hard times, for an honest man
Very very hard times
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
It would be neat if with the New Year
for Miguel
It would be neat if with the New Year
I could leave my loneliness behind with the old year.
My leathery loneliness an old pair of work boots
my dog vigorously head-shakes back and forth in its jaws,
chews on for hours every day in my front yard—
rain, sun, snow, or wind
in bare feet, pondering my poem,
I’d look out my window and see that dirty pair of boots in the yard.
But my happiness depends so much on wearing those boots.
At the end of my day
while I’m in a chair listening to a Mexican corrido
I stare at my boots appreciating:
all the wrong roads we’ve taken, all the drug and whiskey houses
we’ve visited, and as the Mexican singer wails his pain,
I smile at my boots, understanding every note in his voice,
and strangers, when they see my boots rocking back and forth on my
feet
keeping beat to the song, see how
my boots are scuffed, tooth-marked, worn-soled.
I keep wearing them because they fit so good
and I need them, especially when I love so hard,
where I go up those boulder strewn trails,
where flowers crack rocks in their defiant love for the light.
poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Boys I Went To School With
We played football in the school yard and we swam in the Finnow
But the years go by so quickly and to father time we bow
And the boys I went to school with perhaps now looking gray
And many of them from the Homeland shore like me live far away.
Many of the boys I went to school with and that's going back more than four decades in time
Are now ageing grand fathers and years beyond their prime
And those legs that could move so quickly some forty years ago
Now feeling tired and heavy and their fastest pace is slow.
The boys I went to school with have known a better day
And that time takes care of everyone it would be fair to say
Our young years went too quickly and time just flitted by
And on looking back it seems like only yesterday when I was a school boy.
Some of the boys I went to school with to the grim reaper have gone
But life back in the old Hometown as usual carries on
And in the fields near Millstreet Town where the rank rushes grow
The Finnow on towards Drishane and the Blackwater flow.
Most of the boys I went to school with I have not seen for years
But for my fading memories I don't have any tears
We played football in the school yard and in Summer swam in the Finnow
But the years go by so quickly and to father time we bow.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Obstinate
Obscure,
Obstinate,
Science, conscience!
Sweet memories,
Years after years,
Winger, swinger!
Carry me like a star in your arms;
And like the Beauty Shop around you.
I will,
You will,
We will!
Beauty treatments;
Exobiology,
of your emotion after losing!
Rallied,
Enter,
Locked,
Voters,
Undecided.
Woo, woe!
You can't stop it,
You can't stop him,
You can't stop her,
You can't stop me,
I can't stop you;
And, like a planet without a star!
Of all the Professors on this earth,
Within all races,
This is my legacy!
My muse and my word;
My mind and my works,
Between all races!
But, try to come back to your true love.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Down the Sweet Shop
The little corner shop
full of special treats
Chocolate, bottles of Pop,
and jars and jars of sweets.
With pocket money in hand
given to me by my Dad
sometimes a little bit extra
if he heard I'd been a good lad.
I really loved that little shop
it was every young boys dream
you could get everything you'd want
Football Cards, Toys, and Ice-Cream.
My dad used the shop as well
he'd pop in to buy his fags
and Mum did her weekly shop
she'd get me to help her with the bags.
Then along came the big supermarket
the little shop began to lose it's trade
so sadly it had to close it's doors
an end of an era again I'm afraid.
But I'll always remember the little shop
stood there at the bottom of our lane
yes it may have only been small
but it had more style than any supermarket chain!
poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!