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Grey Thrush

Grey thrush was in the wattle tree, an', 'Oh, you pretty dear!'
He says in his allurin' way; an' I remarks, 'Hear, hear!
That does me nicely for a start; but what do I say next?'
But then the Jacks take up the song, an' I get very vexed.

The thrush was in the wattle tree, an' I was underneath.
I'd put a clean white collar on, I'd picked a bunch of heath;
For I was cleaned an' clobbered up to meet my Nell that day.
But now my awful trouble comes: What is a man to say?

I mean to tell her all I've thought since first I saw her there,
On the bark-heap by the mill-shed, with the sunlight in her hair.
I mean to tell her all I've done an' what I'll do with life;
An', when I've said all that an' more, I'll ask her for my wife.

I mean to tell her she's too good, by far, for such as me,
An' how with lonely forest life she never may agree.
I mean to tell her lots of things, an' be reel straight an' fine;
And, after she's considered that, I'll ask her to be mine.

I seen her by the sassafras, the sun was on her hair;
An' I don't know what come to me to see her standin' there.
I never even lifts my hat, I never says 'Good day'
To her that should be treated in a reel respectful way.

I only know the girl I want is standin' smilin' there
Right underneath the sassafras. I never thought I'd dare,
But I holds out my arms to her, an' says, as I come near
Not one word of that speech of mine—but, 'Oh, you pretty dear !'

It was enough. Lord save a man! It's simple if he knew,
There's one way with a woman if she loves you good an' true.
Next moment she is in my arms; an' me? I don't know where.
If Heaven can compare with it I won't fret much up there.

'Why, Mister Jim,' she says to me. 'You're very bold,' says she.
'Yes, miss,' I says. Then she looks up—an' that's the end of me….
'O man !' she cries. 'O modest man, if you go on like this—'
But I interrupt a lady, an' I do it with a kiss.

'Jim, do you know what heroes are?' says she, when I'd 'behaved.'
'Why, yes,' says I. 'They're blokes that save fair maids that won't be saved.'
'You're mine,' says she, an' smiles at me, 'an' will be all my life
That is, if it occurs to you to ask me for your wife.'

Grey thrush is in the wattle tree when I get home that day
Back to my silent, lonely house—an' still he sings away.
There is no other voice about, no step upon the floor;
An' none to come an' welcome me as I get to the door.

Yet in the happy heart of me I play at make-believe:
I hear one singin' in the room where once I used to grieve;
I hear a light step on the path, an', as I reach the gate,
A happy voice, that makes me glad, tells me I'm awful late.

Now what's a man to think of that, an' what's a man to say,
Who's been out workin' in the bush, tree-fallin', all the day?
An' how's a man to greet his wife, if she should meet him here ?
But Grey Thrush in the wattle tree says, 'Oh, you pretty dear !'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Morning Song

The thrush is in the wattle tree, an', 'O, you pretty dear!'
He's callin' to his little wife for all the bush to hear.
He's wantin' all the bush to know about his charmin' hen;
He sings it over fifty times, an' then begins again.
For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! The world is wet with dew,
With tiny drops a-twinkle where the sun comes shinin' thro'.

The thrush is in the wattle tree, red robin's underneath,
The little blue-cap's dodgin' in an' out amongst the heath;
An' they're singin', boy, they're singin' like they'd bust 'emselves to bits;
While, up above, old Laughin' Jack is having forty fits.
For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! The leaves are all ashine:
There's treasure all about the place; an' all of it is mine.

Oh, it's good to be a wealthy man, it's grand to be a king
With mornin' on the forest-land an' joy in everything.
It's fine to be a healthy man with healthy work to do
In the singin' land, the clean land, washed again with dew.
When sunlight slants across the trees, an' birds begin to sing,
Then kings may snore in palaces, but I'm awake - and king.

But the king must cook his breakfast, an' the king must sweep the floor;
Then out with axe on shoulder to his kingdom at the door,
His old dog sportin' on ahead, his troubles all behind,
An' joy mixed in the blood of him because the world is kind.
For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! Time to out an' strive!
Oh, there's not a thing I'm askin' else but just to be alive!

It's cranky moods a man will get an' funny ways of mind;
For I've a memory of one whose thoughts were all unkind:
Who sat an' brooded thro' the night beside the blazin' log,
His home a mirthless, silent house, his only pal a dog.
But it's Mornin'! Mornin'! I nurse no thought but praise,
I've more good friends than I could count, tho' I should count for days.

My friends are in the underbrush, my friends are in the trees,
An' merrily they welcome me with mornin' melodies.
Above, below, from bush an' bough each calls his tuneful part;
An' best of all, one trusty friend is callin' in my heart.
For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! When night's black troubles end.
An' never man was friendless yet who stayed his own good friend.

Ben Murray, he's no friend of mine, an' well I know the same;
But why should I be thinkin' hate, an' nursin' thoughts of blame?
Last evenin' I'd no friend within, but troubles all around,
An' madly thought to fight a man for ten or twenty pound.
But it's Mornin'! Mornin'! my friend within's alive,
An' he'd never risk a twenty - tho' he might consider five.

But where's the call to think of strife with such good things about?
The gum-leaves are a-twinkle as the sun comes peepin' out.
The blue-cap's in an' out the fern, red robin's on the gate,
An' who could hear the song of them a hold a thought of hate?
Oh, it's Mornin'! Mornin'! No time for thinkin' wrong.
An' I'd be scared to strike a man, I feel so awful strong.

Grey thrush is in the wattle, an' it's, 'O, you pretty dear!'
He's callin' to his little wife, an' don't care who should hear
In the great bush, the fresh bush, washed again with dew.
An' my axe is on my shoulder, an' there's work ahead to do.
Oh, it's Mornin'! Singin' Mornin'! in the land I count the best,
An' with the heart an' mind of me I'm singin' with the rest.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush Singing In The Rain

The grey thrush sing on branch of mountain gray
At twilight of a most Unspring like day
On October evening made damp by drizzling rain
And grey bird sing his same song o'er again.

And freshening wind has breath of winter sting
Seems more like Winter now than middle Spring
And wind driven rain fall from the darkening sky
And still the grey thrush pipes his notes of joy.

I wonder why he sing so merrily
On low down branch of noble gray gum tree
Could it be that he can tell from inner eye
That tomorrow's weather will be warm and dry?

Or could he sing that in some nearby tree
His wife on nest shelter new family?
And he tell his neighbours this my territory
And I'm now a dad 'oh lucky happy me'.

And why he sing should it matter anyway
His song at close of wet October day?
The weather dreary for the time of year
But grey thrush's notes sweet music to my ears.

poem by Francis Duggan
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On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush

The grey shrike thrush on branch of mountain gray
At twilight of a most Unspring like day
On October eve made damp by drizzling rain
And grey bird sing his same song o'er again

And freshening wind has breath of winter sting
Seems more like Winter now than middle Spring
And wind driven rain fall from the darkening sky
And still the gray thrush pipes his notes of joy.

I wonder why he sing so merrily
On low down branch of noble gray gum tree
Could it be that he can tell from inner eye
That tomorrow's weather will be warm and dry? .

Or could he sing that in some nearby tree
His wife on nest shelter new family
And he tell his neighbours this my territory
And I'm now a dad 'oh lucky happy me'? .

And why he sing should it matter anyway
His song at close of wet October day
The weather dreary for the time of year
But grey thrush's notes sweet music to the ear.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Wattle Tree

Winter is not yet gone - but now
The birds are carolling from the bough.
And the mist has rolled away
Leaving more beautiful the day.
The sun is out - O come with me
To look upon the wattle tree!

Let misers hoard and hide their gold;
Here there is treasure-trove untold,
In yellow blossom, mass on mass
Spread out for wayfarers who pass
With hearts to feel, and eyes to see
How lovely is the wattle tree.

O strange, O magical! to forget
For a moment care and fret,
Whilst the next spirit, like a cup
Drained of delight, again fills up
And overflows with ecstasy
Before the miracle of the tree.

And rich and poor, who pause to bless
The shining tree in thankfulness,
Are bound in fellowship indeed.
What matter politics or creed,
Or class or colour? surely he
Loves mankind who loves a Tree!

Towards illimitable skies
From the earth the trees arise:
Givers of Joy, their gold and green
Against the blue of Heaven is seen.
A symbol of man's destiny
Is the blossoming the wattle tree.

Winter is not yet gone - but now
The birds are carolling from the bough.
And the mist has rolled away
Leaving more beautiful the day.
The sun is out - O come with me
To look upon the wattle tree!

poem by Dora Wilcox
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Armenian Folk-Song--The Partridge

As beats the sun from mountain crest,
With 'pretty, pretty',
Cometh the partridge from her nest;
The flowers threw kisses sweet to her
(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);
Yet hasteneth she to mine and me--
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!

And when I hear the partridge cry
So pretty, pretty,
Upon the house-top, breakfast I;
She comes a-chirping far and wide,
And swinging from the mountain side--
I see and hear the dainty dear!
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!

Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare.
And pretty, pretty
Bloom violet, rose, and lily there;
The place is full of balmy dew
(The tears of flowers in love with you!)
And one and all impassioned call;
'O pretty, pretty--
O dear little partridge!'

Thy feathers they are soft and sleek--
So pretty, pretty!
Long is thy neck and small thy breast;
The color of thy plumage far
More bright than rainbow colors are!
Sweeter than dove is she I love--
My pretty, pretty--
My dear little partridge!

When comes the partridge from the tree,
So pretty, pretty!
And sings her little hymn to me,
Why, all the world is cheered thereby--
The heart leaps up into the eye,
And echo then gives back again
Our 'Pretty, pretty,'
Our 'Dear little partridge!'

Admitting the most blest of all
And pretty, pretty,
The birds come with thee at thy call;
In flocks they come and round they play,
And this is what they seem to say--
They say and sing, each feathered thing;
'Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!'

poem by Eugene Field
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Loneliness 1

Nobody listens to a lonely
standing tree on a grey land
except blank sky inside.
May be that lonely bird
hear the voice
of the tree.
May be the tree is meditating
with wind
infront of the sky.
May be the tree is saving time
and loneliness
to save its existence.

poem by Devil Poet
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And She Is Left To Face The End Alone

She's lost the dearest love she has ever known
And now she has to face the end alone
Her only daughter's ashes gone to sea
But of others she doesn't need their sympathy.

A bright and lucid woman for her years
For her dead daughter she has shed many tears
She wept when there was no one there to see
And now of hurtful sorrow she feels free.

She feel glad that she has lived to see another Spring
To hear again the white backed magpie sing
And see the yellow flowers on wattle tree
And hear the grey thrush pipe his melody.

Her daughter's ashes borne miles away
By the sea currents from Port Phillip bay
And Thelma like old soldier soldier on
And all her childhood friends long dead and gone.

A braver or wiser woman I've not known
And she is left to face the end alone
Her only daughter's ashes gone to sea
But of others she doesn't seek their sympathy.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Vision the Tree that was Me

I saw a tree so tall and straight
It almost reached to the heavenly gate
I was very close to that tall tree
I became the tree, and the tree became me A fire was burning all around
It burned the roots that were attached to the ground
The fire did not burn the heart of the tree;
As I was the tree and the tree was me. God saved the tree that was me,
God looks upon the heart you see
He saw a sinful heart set free
Sins all buried on the cross of calvary God took the tree that was me,
And planted it by crystal sea
I am the tree, and the tree of life is in me
I, and the tree are one you see, Would you like to be our neighbor?
A tree planted by the waters.
Come to the cross dear sisters and brothers
Jesus will meet you; and we will meet each other.

poem by Pearline Wagner
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Wattle

Wattle wattle everywhere
Wattle we do next wattle
Yellow life exploding out from each coarse stem
Joyful for a few short weeks
A few short weeks and then
Scrub wattle dry wattle
Until spring comes again.

poem by David Keig
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A Song

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;
There is ever a something sings alway:
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
The sunshine showers across the grain,
And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;
And in and out, when the eaves dip rain,
The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear
There is ever a song somewhere!

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue:
The robin pipes when the sun is here,
And the cricket chirrups the whole night through.
The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow,
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear;
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear--
There is ever a song somewhere!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Dawn Dance

What do you think I saw to-day when I arose at dawn?
Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn!
Bobbing here, and bowing there, gossiping away,
And how I wished that you were there to see the merry play!

But you were snug abed, my boy, blankets to your chin,
Nor dreamed of dancing birds without or sunbeams dancing in.
Grey Thrush, he piped the tune for them. I peeped out through the glass
Between the window curtains, and I saw them on the grass -

Merry little fairy folk, dancing up and down,
Blue bonnet, yellow skirt, cloaks of grey and brown,
Underneath the wattle-tree, silver in the dawn,
Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Good Friend To Me

The gold billed blackbird whistling upon the the garden tree
For the past few years a good neighbour to me
He whistles every day all through the Spring
And his song to it has a distinctive ring.

From the other all dark males of his race him I know
Since on his left wing a few flight feathers white as snow
He tells other males of his kind in his song
This patch of ground to me and mine belong.

Each time I hear the blackbird pipe and sing
My thoughts return to the far northern Spring
On Spring evenings in groves by Millstreet Town
The blackbirds pipe before the sun goes down.

The blackbird whistling on the wattle tree
He only sings to proclaim territory
His neighbour males the warning in his song hear
And his border they dare not venture near.

The blackbird in the garden a good friend to me
I know him by sight each time him I see
By the few white feathers on his left side wing
And his song it takes me to the Northern Spring.

poem by Francis Duggan
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What The Heart Of The Poet Said To The 'Bulletin

Tell me not in future numbers
That our thought becomes inane,
That our metre halts and lumbers,
When the Wattle blooms again.

Lies of great men all remind us
We can challenge and restrain
Such attempts to bluff and blind us,
When the Wattle blooms again.

Therefore take our gage of battle!
Freedom reasserts her reign:
We are not dumb, driven, cattle
When the Wattle blooms again.

Doubtless ANSWERS, weekly, daily,
Adding to his heap of slain,
Feels a jar, when Nature gaily
Bids the Wattle bloom again.

Nocent censor! time thou learnest
All this contract may contain —
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
But the Wattle blooms again.

Time may change this loyal journal
From religious to profane,
But a rhythmic law eternal
Makes the Wattle bloom again.

Trust no Flossie, howe'er pleasant,
Sweeps are treacherous, totes are vain;
Banks and scrip are evanescent,
But the Wattle blooms again.

Cultivate no fair ideal;
Own no country-seat in Spain;
All these things must go to Sheol,
Whil'st the Wattle blooms again.

Czar, and Pope, and Dei Gratia
Pass like phantoms of the brain
Never so our bright acacia,
For the Wattle blooms again.

Thus you see, austere and lonely,
Sailing o'er Life's solemn main,
One great fact is certain only —
That the Wattle blooms again.

poem by Joseph Furphy
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Santa Can You Hear Me?

Oh Yah..
Last Night I Took A Walk In The Snow,
Couples Holding Hands Places To Go,
Seems Like Everyone But Me Is In Love,
Santa, Can You Hear Me?
I Signed My Letter That I Sealed With A Kiss,
I Sent It Off And Just Said This,
I Know Exactly What I Want This Year,
Santa, Can You Hear Me?
I Want My Baby, Baby
I Want Someone To Love Me,
Someone To Hold,
And Maybe, Maybe,
He'll Be All My Own,
With A Big Red Bow
[Chorus]
Santa Can You Hear Me?
I Have Been So Good This Year,
And All I Want Is One Thing,
Tell Me My True Love Is Here,
He's All I Want,
Just For Me,
Underneath My Christmas Tree,
I'll Be Waiting Here,
Santa That's My Only Wish This Year.
oooooh yah...yah, yah,
Christmas Eve I Just Can't Sleep,
Would I Be Wrong For Taking A Peek?
'Cause I Heard That You're Coming To Town,
Santa Can You Hear Me?
I Really Hope That You're On Your Way,
With Something Special For Me In Your Sleigh,
Oh Please Make My Wish Come True,
Santa Can You Hear Me?
I Want My Baby, Baby
I Want Someone To Love Me,
Someone To Hold,
And Maybe, Maybe,
We'll Be All Alone Under The Mistletoe.
[Chorus]
Santa Can You Hear Me?
I Have Been So Good This Year
And All I Want Is One Thing,
Tell Me My True Love Is Here,
He's All I Want,
Just For Me,
Underneath My Christmas Tree,
I'll Be Waiting Here,
Santa That's My Only Wish This Year..
I Hope My Letter Reaches You In Time,
Bring Me Love I Can Call All Mine,
Cuz I Have Been So Good (so good this year )
Can We Be All Alone Under The Mistletoe,
He's All I Want In A Big Red Bow,
[Chorus]
Santa Can You Hear Me?
I Have Been So Good This Year,
And All I Want Is One Thing,
Tell Me My True Love Is Here,
He's All I Want,
Just For Me,
Underneath My Christmas Tree,
I'll Be Waiting Here,
Santa That's My Only Wish This Year..
Oooh Santa
Can You Hear Me? Ooooh
Oh Santa..
He's All I Want,
Just For Me,
Underneath My Christmas Tree,
I'll Be Waiting Here,
Santa That's My Only Wish This Year,
Santa That's My Only Wish This Year.

song performed by by Britney Spears
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sweetly Sings the Thrush

Sweetly sings the thrush
among the meadows fair.
All whose senses hear her
wish to wander there.
To be in tune with her fair voice
brings joy into your heart.
She sings of love for what she sees
of which you are a part.

Sweetly sings the thrush
before the night has come.
All the creatures of the day
are saddened when she's done.
To hear the silence of the night
you must wait for another ‘morrow.
For her song that permeates the air
to take away your sorrow.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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My Oak Tree

My taste for love is what I long,
The secret so full and free
My heart of love beats every day
Because of this Oak Tree

The beauty of its leaves, we seldom admire
Oh Creator Lord to thee
How foolish our paths would have been
If it wasn’t for this Oak Tree

How quickly this seed germinated
Our eyes could hardly see
I treasured every moment
Beneath this Oak Tree

As little children we play and hide
How sweet are those memories to me?
The games we played, the jokes we shared
Beneath this Oak Tree

I would never forget this Oak Tree dear
For she is very dear to me
It matters not how grey I get
For my Mother is that Oak Tree

I watched this tree as the leaves got dry
The limbs begin to break
I fell to my knees, and begged the Lord
“Please don’t you this Oak Tree take”

Lord, if this tree should bend its head
I dread that day to see
May time give way to that glorious day
When we meet in eternity.

poem by Troy Brown
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The Wooer

I nearly fell fair in my tracks.
I'm trudgin' homeward with my axe
When I come on her suddenly.
'I wonder if I'm lost?' says she.
'It's risky on such roads as this.'
I lifts my hat an' says, 'Yes, miss.'
I knew 'twas rude for me to stare,
But, oh, that sunlight in her hair!

'I wonder if I'm lost? says she,
An' gives a smile that staggers me.
'An' yet, it wouldn't matter much
Supposing that I was, with such
A glorious green world about,
With bits of blue sky peepin' out.
Do you think there will be a fog?'
'No, miss,' says I, an' pats my dog.

'Oh, what a dear old dog!' says she.
'Most dogs are pretty fond of me.'
She calls him to her, an' he goes.
(He didn't find it hard, I s'pose;
I know I wouldn't if she called.)
'It's wondrous how the tracks are walled
With these great trees that touch the sky
On either side.' 'Yes, miss,' says I.

She fondles my old dog a bit;
I wait to make a bolt for it.
(There ain't no call to stand an' talk
With one who'd be too proud to walk
A half-a-yard with such as me.)
'The wind keeps workin' up,' says she.
'Yes, miss,' says I, an' lifts me hat.
An' she just let's it go at that.

She let me reach the dribblin' ford -
That day to me it fairly roared.
(At least, that's how the thing appears;
But blood was poundin' in my ears.)
She waits till I ahve fairly crossed:
'I thought I told I was lost?'
She cries. 'An' you go walkin' off,
Quite scornful, like some proud bush toff!'

She got me thinkin' hard with that.
'Yes, miss,' I says, an' lifts my hat.
But she just waits there on the track,
An' lets me walk the whole way back.
'An' are you reely lost?' says I.
'Yes, sir,' says she an' drops her eye. . .
I wait, an' wait for what seems days;
But not another word she says.

I pats my dog, an' lifts my hat;
But she don't seem to notice that.
I looks up trees an' stares at logs,
An' long for twenty hats an' dogs.
'The weather's kept reel good to-day,'
I blurts at last. Say she, 'Hurray!'
'Hurray!' she says, an' then, 'Encore!'
An' gets me wonderin' what for.

'Is this the right road to 'The Height?''
I tell her it's the road, all right,
But that the way she's walkin' ain't.
At that she looked like she would faint.
'Then I was lost if I had gone
Along this road an' walked right on
An unfrequented bush track, too!
How fortunate that I met you!'

'Yes, miss,' I says. 'Yes - what?' says she.
Says I, 'Most fortunate . . . for me.'
I don't know where I found the pluck
To blurt that out an' chance my luck.
'You'll walk,' she says, 'a short way back,
So you can put me on the track?'
'I'll take you all the way,' says I,
An' looks her fair bang in the eye.

Later, I let myself right out,
An' talked: an' told her all about
The things I've done, an' what I do,
An' nearly all I'm hopin' to.
Told why I chose the game I'm at
Because my folks were poor, an' that.
She seemed reel pleased to hear me talk,
An' sort of steadied up the walk.

An' when I'd spoke my little bit,
She just takes up the thread of it;
An' later on, near knocks me down
By tellin' me she works - in town.
Works? her? I thought, the way she dressed,
She was quite rich; but she confessed
That makin' dresses was her game,
An' she was dead sick of the same.

When Good bye came, I lifts my hat;
But she holds out her hand at that.
I looked at mine, all stained with sap,
An' told her I'm a reel rough chap.
'A worker's hand,' says she, reel fine,
'An' marked with toil; but so is mine.
We're just two toilers; let us shake,
An' be good friends - for labour's sake.'

I didn't care to say no more,
For fear of what she'd take me for
But just Good bye, an' turns away,
Bustin' with things I had to say.
I don't know how I got right home.
The wonder was I didn't roam
Off in the scrub, an' dream out there
Of her with sunlight in her hair.

At home I looks around the place,
An' sees the dirt a fair disgrace;
So takes an' tidies up a bit,
An' has a shave; an' then I sit
Beside my fire to have a think.
But my old dog won't sleep a wink;
He fools, an' whines, an' nudges me,
Then all at once I thinks of tea.

I beg his pardon wiht a smile,
An'. talkin' to him all the while,
I get it ready, tellin' him
About that girl; but, 'Shut up, Jim!'
he says to me as plain as plain.
'First have some food, an' then explain.'
(I don't know how she came to tell,
But I found out her name is Nell.)

We gets our bit to eat at last.
(An', just for spite, he et his fast) . . .
I think that Nell's a reel nice name . . .
'All right, old dog, I ain't to blame
If you' . . . Just as I go to sup
My tea I stop dead, with my cup
Half up, an' . . . By the Holy Frost!
I wonder was Nell reely lost?

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Only Wish

oh yeah yeah...
Last night i took a walk in the snow,
Couples holdin hands, places to go,
Seems like everyone but me is in love
Santa can you hear me?
I signed my letter that i sealed with kiss,
I sent it off, it just said this:
"i know exactly what i want this year"
Santa can you hear me?
I want my baby, baby
I want someone to love me, someone to hold,
Maybe maybe,
He'll be all my own in a big red bow
Santa can you hear me?
I have been so good this year
And all i want is one thing,
Tell me my true love is here
He's all i want, just for me
Underneath my christmas tree
I'll be waiting here
Santa that's my only wish this year
Yeahh...
Christmas eve, i just can't sleep
Would i be wrong for takin a peek
Cuz i heard that you're comin to town
Santa can you hear me?
I really hope that you're on your way
With something special for me in your sleigh
Oh please make my wish come true,
Santa can you hear me?
I want my baby, baby
I want someone to love me, someone to hold
Baby, baby, baby
We'll be all alone under the mistletoe
Santa can you hear me?
I have been so good this year,
All i want is one thing
Tell me my true love is here
He's all i want, just for me
Underneath my christmas tree
I'll be waiting here
Santa that's my only wish this year
I hope my letter reaches you in time, (oh yeah)
Bring me love i can call all mine (oh yeah)
Cuz i have been so good this year, (oh oh)
Can't be alone under the mistletoe,
He's all i want in a big red bow.
Santa can you hear me?
I have been so good this year
And all i want is one thing
Tell me my true love is near
He's all i want, just for me
Underneath my christmas tree
I'll be waiting here,
Santa that's my only wish this year
Ahh ahh ahh
Oh santa, can you hear me...?
Oh santa, well he's all i want
Just for me, underneath my christmas tree
I'll be waiting here,
Santa that's my only wish this year
Santa that's my only wish this year.

song performed by by Britney Spears
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oh Pretty Woman

Written by Roy Orbison, Bill Bees
Pretty woman, walkin' down the street.
Pretty woman, the kind I'd like to meet,
Pretty woman, I don't believe you.
You're not the truth.
No one could look as good as you.
Mercy
Pretty woman, won't you pardon me.
Pretty woman, I couldn't help but see,
Pretty woman, you look lovely as can be.
Are you lonely just like me?
Kiss me
Pretty woman stop a while.
Pretty woman won't you talk a while.
Pretty woman give your smile to me.
Pretty woman, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Pretty woman, won't you look my way.
Pretty woman, won't you say you'll stay with me.
'Cause I need you, hey I'll treat you right.
Come with me baby, you can be mine tonight.
ahhhhh, ahhhh
Pretty woman, hey don't walk on by.
Pretty woman, don't make me cry.
Pretty woman, don't you walk away, hey! OK.
If that's the way it must be, OK.
I guess I'll go on home, cause it's si late.
There'll be tomorrow night, BUT WAIT!
What do I see?
Is she walking back to me?
Yeah, she's walking back to me!
Wohoo PRETTY WOMAN!

song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Green Roads

The green roads that end in the forest
Are strewn with white goose feathers this June,

Life marks left behind by someone gone to the forest
To show his track. But he has never come back.

Down each green road a cottage looks at the forest.
Round one the nettle towers; two are bathed in flowers.

An old man along the green road to the forest
Strays from one, from another a child alone.

In the thicket bordering the forest,
All day long a thrush twiddles his song.

It is old, but the trees are young in the forest,
All but one like a castle keep, in the middle deep.

That oak saw the ages pass in the forest:
They were a host, but their memories are lost,

For the tree is dead: all things forget the forest
Excepting perhaps me, when now I see

The old man, the child, the goose feathers at the edge of the forest,
And hear all day long the thrush repeat his song.

poem by Edward Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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