The Time Has Come...
The vicar went to the valley,
A mountain on either side,
He built a small log cabin
To comfort his future bride,
The wind between the mountains
Brought echoes of far-off plains,
More often than not in the heart of the night,
Someone called his name.
The voice was sometimes muffled,
The voice, it sometimes screamed,
Whole sentences were chanted
Broke in on the vicar's dreams,
The sounds were like a mirage
Half heard from a distant town,
Whenever the wind would begin to rise
He heard the strangest sounds.
A tap-tap-tap in the morning,
A tap-tap-tap at night,
As if someone was typing
Up on the mountain's height,
The rhythm was pervasive
As it typed some ancient log,
He heard the words: 'The quick brown fox
Jumps over the lazy dog.'
He ran from out of the cabin
And scanned the dusty plain,
His trusty dog was lying
Asleep on the track again,
When out from the brittle bushes
Aside of the narrow track,
A quick brown fox with a startled look,
Jumped over his old Ridge-back.
The vicar ran to the cabin
And fell on his knees in prayer,
What are you trying to tell me, lord,
That you're really, really there?
I thought you were, but I wasn't sure,
It'll take some getting used to!
A voice intoned: 'England expects
Each man to do his duty! '
The vicar jumped up off his knees
And praised the lord again,
You've saved my very soul, my lord,
From Hell, and the pits of pain,
I'd thought that God was mine alone,
And not for everyone,
But now I find - and it blows my mind;
'God is an Englishman! '
The wind was slowly rising,
It whined and whooped and roared,
It swooped along the valley,
Came in at the cabin door,
The vicar, sleeping restlessly
Heard everything, hale and hearty:
'The time has come for all good men
To come to the aid of the party.'
The vicar's not been seen of late
He's busy, light and dark,
With hammer, nails, and canvas sails
He's building himself an Ark,
While in a tiny township that
Lies hidden in mountain haze,
A typing teacher has just locked up,
And gone on his holidays.
12 April 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
After 'To Joanna
In his company Joanna laughed:
Clear she thought that he was daft
When he heard the mountains laughing
In his ravishment of mind.
Now the vicar who'd upbraided him
For carving in the rock
Upon whose meditation
The ravishment occurred,
Instead of laughing loudly
At his loftiness of word,
Smiled and looked astonished
Thinking, 'Jackass of a bird.'
Realising that he'd lost him
The poet came to earth,
Told the vicar in plain language
Of Joanna's certain anguish
As she drew into his side
For fear of something that she heard
But to which could put no word.
Now she's gone back to the city,
I miss her laughter, that's the pity.
That's why 'JOANNA'S ROCK'
Is what he's chiseled,
This jackass of a bird.
I wrote this in October-November 2011 mainly in my bed in Adelaide
after reading Wordsworth's
'To Joanna'. The thought about the jackass (kookaburra) I put into
the mind of the vicar comes from an
experience in which I was camping with a friend. Our tent blew in on us one
night and we couldn't be bothered getting out to re-erect it. Instead my friend
laughed hysterically all night. Next morning I overheard the man in the
nearby caravan muttering that if he'd had an axe he'd have killed that
laughing jackass last night.
My friend was like the poet, I was like Joanna, amused by rapture, and
the guy in the caravan was the vicar.
poem by Douglas Scotney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rose Across The Sea
For My Good Friend JoAnn McGrath
Not so long ago I was joking
with a young lady across sea.
I told her that I was a vicar,
or at least pretend one.
My name was Dodgy Dave the Vicar.
A little while later
she wrote a poem aptly named,
The Vicar Is Quicker.
Since then she has written
quite a number more.
I tell her a funny story about me.
No sooner do I tell her the story
it appear as a Dodgy Dave Poetry.
In the time I have known her
not once have, I wrote a poem for her,
that rose across the sea.
She thinks of me as her big brother.
I find that as a compliment you see,
as my own real sister
does not want to know me.
Therefore, I have an adopted one
far away from me,
a rose across the sea.
Therefore, Joann
this poem is just for you,
from your friend,
that Dodgy quicker vicar
who rhymes with liquor.
A substance he never touches,
but I will raise my cup of tea
and say again,
this poem is just for you,
my rose across the sea.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Vicar's Coming To Tea
Eh?
What's that you said?
Oh dearie me,
You told me the vicar's coming to tea.
What shall I wear, what shall we eat?
I'll have to go shopping down the village street.
What shall we say to him?
Think on it do!
He's more intellectual
Than me and than you.
Though wait just a moment,
I'm giving some thought
As to why we lament,
Just as if we know nought.
For we are all different.
Thank goodness for that!
Don't let's be diffident,
Or feel we are prats.
All humans have something
To offer you see.
The things we are good at
Will be different to he.
So I'm now looking forward
To taking his hat,
And sitting with vicar enjoying a chat.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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The Vicar Of Bray
In good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant;
A furious High-Church man I was,
And so I gain'd preferment.
Unto my flock I daily preach'd,
Kings are by God appointed,
And damn'd are those who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord's anointed.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When Royal James possess'd the crown,
And popery grew in fashion;
The penal law I houted down,
And read the declaration:
The Church of Rome, I found would fit,
Full well my constitution,
And I had been a Jesuit,
But for the Revolution.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When William our deliverer came,
To heal the nation's grievance,
I turned the cat in pan again,
And swore to him allegiance:
Old principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive obedience is a joke,
A jest is non-resistance.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When glorious Anne became our queen
The Church of England's glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional conformists base,
I damn'd, and moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
From such prevarication.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When George in pudding time came o'er,
And moderate men looked big, sir,
My principles I chang'd once more,
And so became a Whig, sir:
And thus preferment I procur'd,
From our faith's great defender,
And almost every day abjur'd
The Pope, and the Pretender.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
The illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I lustily will swear,
Whilst they can keep possession:
For in my faith, and loyalty,
I never once will falter,
George, my lawful king shall be,
Except the times should alter.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Call From On High
Come into the Church, the Vicar said,
Otherwise you'll be standing in the flowerbed,
Because outside, there really is no space,
It's filled seemingly by the 'whole human race',
So into the Church I made my way,
To sit, to sing and maybe to pray.
The organ was playing loud and clear,
The volume well up, so easy to hear,
With the choir rendering a psalm or two,
I made my way into a pew,
And knelt in reverence as one should,
Feeling infinitely good.
And as I knelt there all alone,
A sudden noise, or should I say tone,
Came to my ear, a sound well known,
Dear Lord, it was my mobile phone.
I felt my body start to freeze,
Kneeling there upon my knees.
I switched it off with rapid speed,
Picked up a hymn book and began to read,
Trying to ignore the stares,
And even more than that, the glares,
Which penetrated my poor back,
Like I'd encountered a shower of flak.
I edged my way along the seat,
Hoping to make my escape complete,
But suddenly the pew was brimming over,
With aliens from another nova,
Who didn't seem to see my plight,
And that now I was turning rather white.
I had to sit the whole service through,
Well you see, what else could I do,
Stuck up against an embroidered banner,
Dedicated to someone called Hannah,
Who passed away in 1907,
And was guaranteed a place in heaven.
At last the Vicar gave his blessing,
My urge to leave was very pressing,
When were these neighbours going to budge,
It was very hard for me to judge
If they would join the growing queue,
To wish the Vicar 'fond adieu'.
By the time that they had all moved out,
I realised without a doubt,
That I was the very last one to stand,
And to have to shake the Vicar's hand,
Who asked me if my 'call' had come from 'on high',
Have you ever felt you wanted to die.
I tried to laugh it off as best I could,
'You'll come again'? he asked, I said I would,
But without my mobile next time, I think,
He smiled at me and gave a 'wink',
Actually I liked him, he was pretty okay,
So, Yes, I'll go there another day.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Reluctant Visitor
The Reverend Peter Porter Guys
Was a gentle man with anaemic eyes,
Pale blue, that watered wherever he went
From Epiphany, to the fasting of Lent.
He walked the villages of his flock
From door to door, from knock to knock,
And always he mentioned the Organ Fund
To the full of life, and the moribund.
He went from house to house with glee
Consuming hundreds of cups of tea,
And never noticed - and there's the rub,
That 'hubby' had gone to hide at the pub.
The ladies listened with wringing hands
To the trials of Job and the Lord's commands,
And simpered long in the hopes that he
Could give them a personal 'Heaven' key.
Forgive their sins, both now and then
Put in a word with the Lord for them,
Perhaps forgive them a future sin
Or two or three - like a lottery win!
His eyes then watered, the Reverend Guys
He gave no specials, he told no lies,
The road was narrow, the road was straight
With no back alleys to Heaven's Gate.
One day he went to visit the Dunns
They hadn't been to his service once,
Just newly moved from a house in town
They'd come to the country, settled down.
Now Peggy Dunn, she wanted to fit
With the country types of Nether Stitt,
She'd sworn to please, so she asked him in
And they sat in her bright solarium.
His eyes, they watered in there the most
As he talked of the passing Holy Ghost,
While Peggy shuddered and looked askance
At the pot containing her cannabis plant.
Her husband Don was an atheist,
Who didn't believe that gods exist,
'We all came down from a worm, ' he said,
'That turned to a monkey; then we bred! '
His wife was more of a nervous type
Who covered her bets 'til the time was ripe,
'What if he's up there, watching you?
Just keep your voice down, finish your stew! '
So Don had gone out the door at back
As the Vicar came in, a frontal attack,
He hid in the space between the trees
And cursed as the nettles stung his knees.
While Peggy went out to make the tea
The vicar, quite absent-mindedly
Picked off some buds from the cannabis plant
And chewed on them as a ruminant.
The tea was served in her Doulton fine
And the roses seemed to glow like wine,
'Such beautiful cups, ' said a voice in his head,
'Left over from grandma's estate, ' she said.
He looked up startled, could she see in
To the place where the voice spoke only to him?
The room was suddenly silent then,
As the minutes ticked, and the hours began.
He said, 'well maybe I'd better go...'
'Oh must you? ' Then he had answered, 'No! '
He didn't have anywhere else to be,
And telling a lie was a sin, you see.
He settled back in his easy seat
Looked out of the window, drank his tea
Then something caught at his feeble stare,
'There's a man in the bushes, look! Out there! '
'Oh, that's just Don, ' said Peggy Dunn
And glared at her husband to come on in,
He came, but not in the best of moods,
In fact, to the vicar, he was rude.
'Hi Rev, get out of the wrong side bed?
Your collar's on back to front, ' he said,
Then laughed, but the Reverend Peter Guys
Just sat and stared, and watered his eyes.
'Hey Peg, the Reverend needs a feed,
I hope you've asked him to stay to tea! '
What Peg had whispered I won't repeat,
But she said aloud, 'Oh vicar, please! '
'Of course, ' he mumbled, the room it spun,
He couldn't have stood for the Holy One,
Then Don had brought in a cookie plate,
'Get into them, Rev, before it's too late! '
They both ate cookies, and washed them down
With another cuppa in Royal Crown,
But Peggy had glared at Don, aghast,
The cookies were solidly filled with hash.
By eight o'clock on that very night
The Vicar staggered up out of his seat,
'Maybe you'd like to watch TV? '
Don had roared, and the Rev. agreed.
'I would, I would, but I really just....'
'Sit in my chair? Oh please, you must! '
So Reverend Guys in utter despair
Had found himself in a smelly chair;
With cats' hair over each arm, he sat
And waited his chance like a cornered rat,
When Don, his sarcasm running to math
Said, 'wouldn't you like a shower, or a bath? '
Yes, he would, it was true, he cried
He felt unclean, since the cat had died
And left its fur on its master's chair
Who knew what disease was lurking there?
He staggered off like an old, old man
With Peggy holding his trembling hand,
She gave him a towel and a bar of soap
But what he would like was a length of rope.
The bathroom window was way too small
If he got outside he was bound to fall,
But given some rope and by using stealth
At least he could try to hang himself.
He came out dripping, and wearing a robe
Of Don's, the colour of heliotrope,
'You look like you're ready to sleep, ' he said,
'Is there any good reason you can't take my bed? '
The vicar replied a despairing 'No! '
He still couldn't lie - Please ask him to go!
But Don wasn't finished, his sarcasm rife,
'Have you any objections to sleep with my wife? '
The vicar lay snuggled right up to his chin
With a naked Peggy right next to him,
She figured that Don brought it all on himself...
(If he gave her a score out of ten - might as well!)
The Reverend hasn't been spotted of late,
It took him a week there to plan his escape,
He never drinks tea, and will visit no-one
Since causing the split between Peggy and Don.
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I thought
I thought I saw his face to day.
In the wake of the sun.
And then I heard the Lord say.
His work here is done.
I thought I heardhis voice today.
And luagh your joyfull luagh.
Then I heard the Lord say.
There is peace dear one at last.
I though I felt your touch in the breeze that rustled by.
And then I heard the lord say.
The spirit never dies.
I thought I saw my broken hart.
In the cresent of the moon.
And then I heard the lord say.
I am coming soon.
I thought that you had left me
for the stars above.
And then I heard the lord say.
He has left you with his love.
I thought that I would miss you so.
And never find my way.
Then I heard the lord say.
He is with you every day
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Unconventional
The day was cold but she was not in point of fact she was too hot.
So she stripped off all of her clothes because she chose to I suppose
Her neighbours thought it rather quaint but only one raised a complaint
The vicar did not think she should do her gardening in the nude
But she replied acerbically that if he did not want to see
Then he should look the other way. She did not tell him how to pray
He should not tell her how she must dress. For all his show of piousness
She had seen him gazing lustfully when he was no one could see
Upon young school girls passing by from whom he could not tear his eye. What right has he to condemn me when I display quite openly
All that I have quite naturally with no false show of modesty
I’m not ashamed why should I be.I am the way that God made me
But he conceals his prurience behind an air of innocence
By advocating nudity at least I’m acting honestly.
I have no time for pious frauds who secretly gain their rewards
by using their imagination to enjoy what they would dearly like to do.
I told the vicar to his face I thought he was a black disgrace
He mumbled something in reply but could not look me in the eye.
He knew I had divined his lustfulness. He knew I knew no need to guess.
He thought it best to move away but where he went I cannot say.
We have a lady vicar now who does not try to tell me how
I ought to dress for gardening.content to let me do my own thing.
She says that sometimes she, wishes she could act as naturally.
26-Oct-08
http: // blog my space.com.poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Demon under the Altar Stone
As a boy in a ruff and a surplice, gown,
I sang in the choir of a country town,
Under the eye of the Reverend Burr
In a church that had stood for a thousand years.
A church so old that it reeked of damp
From the days of an Anglo-Saxon camp,
They'd built their Church on a Druid site
To banish the wailing ghosts at night!
The Romans had slaughtered the Druid priests
In a river of blood at a Druid Feast,
And still their cries could be heard on nights
When the moon gleamed red by the altar lights.
The beams streamed in through the leadlight glass
With an eerie glow that was overcast,
Illumined the ancient altar stone
That covered the Bishop of Cædmon's bones.
The slab that lay on the floor was lipp'd
As it covered the age-old church's crypt,
And there was a crack, an inch around
Through to the crypt there, under the ground.
From where I sat in the old oak pew
I could see the back of the altar, too,
And through a gap where the floor was bare
Were moving shadows that shouldn't be there!
The crypt had been sealed, eight hundred years
Since the Normans had taken the Saxon Reeves,
Imprisoned them down in the crypt for good
Then walled them in - (so I understood!)
And there they suffered and there they died
The Shire Reeves of the countryside,
And no-one had ever been down there since,
Or disturbed their bones... for the merest glimpse.
The Reverend Burr was hellfire bent,
His sermons called to the sinners, 'Repent! '
He ranted and raved of a jealous God,
And asked why nobody reck'd his rod.
The smell of sulphur hung in the air
After a sermon by Reverend Burr,
And brimstone caught in my nostrils so
That I almost gagged at the horror below.
One Sunday, kneeling at evensong
I stared at the ancient altar stone,
And there I saw, and to my surprise,
A glow that appeared to be two red eyes!
They glowed bright red, and they stared at me
As if I were alone in the gallery,
My mind was full of the vicar's gall,
And I felt that a demon had pawned my soul.
The eyes dropped down in the crypt instead
And shadows moved, to my mounting dread,
So after the service I hurried on home,
As far as I could from that altar stone!
A week went by, and I thought of things,
Convinced they must be imaginings,
So off I went to the choir again,
But just to be safe, I whispered, 'Ben! '
'You see the crack in the altar stone,
Just tell me if I'm the only one,
I saw two eyes in that crack last week,
They scared me so much that I couldn't speak! '
The vicar stood by the altar there
With his bulging eyes and his crazy hair
And he roared and he pounded his fist on down
'Til it shook and it rattled the altar stone.
He spoke of torment and endless grief,
For the sin of pride, and the skulking thief,
For the lover of all material things,
The women who covered their hands with rings!
Adulterers were the scourge of God
And would fall in the cracks of the earth, he said,
While those who harboured an impure thought,
Their hopes of heaven were set at naught.
(But all the while it was widely known
That the vicar had been with the widow Rowan,
She'd visited him at the rectory,
And breakfasted in the Refectory) .
His voice rose up and the altar stone
Began to rumble and then to groan,
I felt Ben tense at the side of me
As the eyes rose up, as red as could be!
The eyes rose up and peered from the gloom
Of the crypt, long cursed by a Druid Moon,
The more the vicar harangued and roared,
The more that it rumbled under the floor.
The doors blew open, the wind blew in
Like a storm raised up from the depths of sin,
The people ran for the path outside,
'You've raised the devil, ' the people cried.
And then the floor it had opened up
Where the vicar stood, he had said enough!
Just for a moment we caught a glimpse
Of the thing in the crypt that we've not seen since!
An evil demon with blood-red eyes,
With hands like hooks of a monstrous size,
And teeth that grinned in the fading gloom,
The vicar fell into that terrible room.
We heard him scream just once down there
The sound of a sinner beyond despair,
And then the demon went down with a drone,
Covered the hole with the altar stone!
That church stood empty, unused for years,
They said that it carried a Druid curse,
But who would go down to the crypt alone,
Or think to disturb the altar stone?
29 June 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Church of Wenslow Haze
The sea that batters the eastern coast
Has often subdued the land,
Five hundred years have seen the retreat
Of a mile of cliffs and sand,
When tides are low in the summertime
From beneath the distant swell,
The villagers lying abed at night
Hear the tolling of a bell.
The bell resounds up the village street
And rattles the cobblestones,
As the villagers close the shutters tight
And lock the doors of their homes,
They hear the thump of a wooden stump
As it echoes along the street,
The wooden leg of the mate, John Clegg
From Drake's Armada Fleet!
The thump is steady and purposeful
As it heads towards the sea,
Where the bell still rings for matins
As in 1563,
When priests were burned for popery
In the England of those days,
They used the little singing cakes
In the Church of Wenslow Haze!
John Clegg was a surly protestant
In the service of the Queen,
So the use of the cakes for massing bread -
He thought it was quite obscene!
The vicar had leant to the Roman Church,
The Reverend Walter Raise,
And Clegg had stood and harangued him there
In the Church of Wenslow Haze.
‘You'll bring your Popish habits here
At the risk of mortal pain,
I fought for the Queen Elizabeth
To see off the King of Spain,
If you don't revert to the massing bread
And the Book of Common Prayer,
I'll see to the piling of faggots
When they burn you in the square! '
But Walter Raise would never be stayed
By the threats of an ignorant tar,
He said: ‘I only answer to God
For the what and the where we are!
The form is not as important as
The salving of the soul,
You'd better look to your own before
The Devil takes you all! '
But Clegg had waited for matins, he
Returned with a burning brand,
Set fire to the ancient tapestries
The pews and the altar stand,
He raised his cutlass and brought it down
On the Romish vicar's head,
And he cursed the Church of Wenslow Haze
As the vicar lay there, dead!
The sea rose up in a sudden storm
And it swept across the land,
Engulfed the Church of Wenslow Haze
As if raised by God's own hand,
The land had tilted beneath the sea
And the church, it settled deep,
With the bodies of Clegg and Walter Raise
And the bell-tower, and the keep!
So now when the tide repents and drops
To a fathom, over the bell,
The toll rings out from the surly deep
Like a call to the fiends from hell,
And a stump sounds over the cobblestones
As Clegg, for his soul's sake pays,
He carries a burning fire brand
To the Church of Wenslow Haze.
29 July,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Vicar In A Tutu
I was minding my business
I was lifting some lead off
The roof of the holy name church
It was worthwhile living a laughable life
Just to set my eyes on the blistering sight
Of a vicar in a tutu
He's not strange
He just wants to live his life this way
A scanty bit of a thing
With a decorative ring
That wouldn't cover the head of a child
As rose collects the money in the cannister
Who comes sliding down the bannister ?
The vicar in a tutu
He's not strange
He just wants to live his life this way
Oh, the monkish monsignor
With a head full of plaster
Said : "my man, get your vile soul dry-cleaned"
As rose collects the money from the cannister
As natural as rain
He dances again
My god !
The vicar in a tutu
Oh yeah
Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Oh ...
The vicar in a tutu
Oh yeah
Oh ...
The next day in the pulpit
With freedom and ease
Combatting ignorance, dust, and disease
As rose counts the money in the cannister
As natural as rain
He dances again and again and again
In the fabric of a tutu
Any man could get used to
And i am the living sign
I'm a living sign
I am a living sign
I'm a living sign
I am a living sign
I'm a living sign
Sign ...
I am a living sign
Oh ...
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Black Mountain Blues
Out in black mountain a child will smack your face.
Im saying out on black mountain a child will smack your face.
The babies cryin for liquor, and all the birds sing bass.
Well, those people in black mountain are mean as they can be.
And those people in black mountain are mean as they can be.
Now they uses gun powder just to sweeten up their tea.
Well, out in black mountain you cant keep a good man in jail.
Yeah, out in black mountain you cant keep a good man in jail
cause if the jury convicts him, the judge will pay his bail.
I had a man in black mountain, the sweetest man in town.
I had a man in black mountain, the sweetest man in the town.
But then he met a city gal, thats when he throwed me down.
Lord, Im bound for black mountain, me and my razor and my gun,
Im going back to black mountain, me and my razor and my gun.
Im gonna fire him if he stands still, Ill just cut him if he runs.
Lord, now youve heard my story, now youve heard my news.
Lord, now youve heard my story, now youve heard my news.
Now my man can clear off, Ive got the blackest mountain blues.
song performed by by Janis Joplin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Granny
Through every nook and every cranny
The wind blew in on poor old Granny
Around her knees, into each ear
(And up nose as well, I fear)
All through the night the wind grew worse
It nearly made the vicar curse
The top had fallen off the steeple
Just missing him (and other people)
It blew on man, it blew on beast
It blew on nun, it blew on priest
It blew the wig off Auntie Fanny-
But most of all, it blew on Granny!
poem by Spike Milligan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Women Is Losers
Women is losers
Women is losers
Women is losers
Women is losers.
Well, i know you must have heard it all,
Lord, ev'rywhere
Men always seem to end up on top.
I said, if they told you that they want you
Say they come around and wind up your door.
Whoa i say now, if they don't desert you,
They'll leave you and never be here for more!
Women is losers
Women is losers
Women is losers, lord, lord, lord, lord!!!!!
I said i know you must have heard it all,
Lord, everywhere
Men always seem to end up on top.
I say they wear a nice shiny armor
Until there is a dragon for to slay.
Now baby,
Course with men beggin' to pay 'em
I'll say they're bound to run away, oh!
Women is losers
Women is losers
Women is losers, lord, lord, lord, lord!!!!!!
I said, i know you must have heard it all
Lord, ev'rywhere
Men almost seem to end up on top, oh!
Women is losers
Women is losers
Women is losers, lord, lord, lord, lord,
Well, i know you must have heard it all,
Men always seem to end up on top.
Oh yeah, they'll use you and confuse you
They'll leave you when no one has thought to play.
They might say to watch out after your conduct
Why the hell there ain't another way, oh!
Women is losers
Women is losers
Women is losers, lord, lord, lord, lord!!!!!!
So now i know you must have heard it all,
Ev'rywhere
Men always seem to end up on top.
song performed by by Janis Joplin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harmony restored for M lady Ernestine
The vicar, such a nice old gent.
Sees both sides of the argument.
But there is little he can do.
He will not choose between the two.
Maintains a strict neutrality
and prays for guidance reverently
The Sabbath should pass peacefully,
quite free from all hostility.
But Oh Dear Me it isn’t so
the organist will have to go.
So we regain tranquillity
and hear the choir properly.
The organist will take offence.
But we must act in self defence.
The vicar acts reluctantly
and grants the choirmaster’s plea.
The organist just has to go.
He played far too fortissimo.
05/11/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Fallen One
I saw your face in the morning sun
Oh, I thought you were there
I heard your voice as the wind passed me by
Silently, whispering my name
So many things that I wanted to say
Forever left untold
I still remember the tears that you shed
Over someone else
Our love could never die
All I can do is cry
Save a little prayer for the fallen one
There is a light down at memory lane
Slowly fading away
Still holding on to the dreams torn apart
I will follow my heart
Our love could never die
All I can do is cry
Save a little prayer for the fallen one
Still on my own, chasing the sun
Of a time long ago
The shade in my heart, tearing apart
Everything that I long for
I saw your face in the morning sun
Oh, I thought you were there
I heard your voice as the wind passed me by
Whispering my name
Our love could never die
All I can do is cry
Save a little prayer for the fallen one
song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Burning Question
We have a Vicar from the south
Who preaches with his mouth
His sermon for the Day
Was to make the people stay
The darkness was too much
But being a Vicar that was silly
He burnt his hand on the tilly
By Derek Lewry aka Papa Bear
25 May 2008
Note: This poem was written about an incident that happened to me on Sunday by the Mayor of the Western Town I belong to, Papa Bear (Derek Lewery) .
I was lighting a Tilly lamp to lighten up my church as we have no electricity. The lamp went out and when I tried to relight it, the lamp looked like it was going to topple over so I reached to steady it and burnt the palm of my left hand. Instead of seeing the light I felt the pain. I did the service with my hand wrapped in a cold wet towel.
Please leave a comment on passing as all your comments will be passed on to Papa Bear.
David
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There was a young vicar from Gwent
Who promised that he would repent;
He said he'd just met her
And he would do better
But I'm not so sure what he meant.
quote by by John Carter Brown
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Must Have Been Sleeping
'Where are you going, ' I heard her say
As the dream took me straight to the core,
We parked at the side of a very long road
And I got out the driver's door;
'I've never known that, ' I replied, and she sat
On her hands, with the pain of surprise,
'So what you've been saying has never been true! '
The tears rose up in her eyes!
'The road has been long, the road has been wide,
I never knew where I could turn.'
'I thought you were happy with me, ' she said;
There was nothing to say in return.
'I must have been sleeping for seventeen years, '
My voice sounded foreign and coarse,
But I couldn't handle the sighs and the lies,
Or the terrible sound of - 'divorce! '
I walked to the wood at the side of the road,
And followed the pathway around,
I couldn't look back now I'd made up my mind
Though I walked unfamiliar ground,
The clearing was quiet, the birds didn't sing,
A mountain rose up in my view,
I suddenly saw there was no going back
To the comfortable life that I knew.
I cast off my shackles and took a deep breath,
To breathe in both freedom and pride,
My strength was returning, and clearer my eye,
I walked with a bounce in my stride,
The years fell away, I was thirty again,
I stopped then, and sat on a stone,
For darkness was gathering there in the gloom
With that terrible feeling - alone!
I thought of the woman I'd left on the road,
Who'd always been faithful to me,
The tears that she'd shed for a love that was dead
Made me sad, and ashamed to be free,
I thought of the comfort she'd given me when
All my world started going insane,
She'd cooked and she'd cared, and she'd loved and she'd shared
And I'd given her nothing but pain.
I turned on the track, and I made my way back
But I couldn't see where I had been,
I stumbled through thickets and walked into trees
And I fell on my knees on the green.
'I am lost, I am lost, ' I cried into the night
Then I heard her voice, dim, by a tree
And woke to her stroking my face and my brow
As I cried… She was waiting for me!
9 March 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Uncle Tom's Cabin
Just for the record let's get the story straight
Me and Uncle Tom were fishin' it was gettin'
Pretty late
Out on a cypress limb above the wishin' well
Where they say it got no bottom say it take
You down to Hell
Over in the bushes and off to the right
Come two men talkin' in the pale moonlight
Sheriff John Brady and Deputy Hedge
Haulin' two limp bodies down to the water's edge
I know a secret down at Uncle Tom's Cabin oh yea
I know a secret that I just can't tell
They didn't see me and Tom in the tree
Neither one believin' what the other could see
Tossed in the bodies let 'em sink on down
To the bottom of the well
Where they'd never be found
I know a secret down at Uncle Tom's cabin oh yea
I know a secret that I just can't tell
I know a secret down at Uncle Tom's Cabin
Know a secret that I just can't tell
I know a secret down at Uncle Tom's Cabin
Know who put the bodies in the wishin' well
Soon as they were gone me & Tom got down
Prayin' real hard that we wouldn't make a sound
Runnin' through the woods back to Uncle Tom's shack
Where the full moon shines through the roof tile cracks
Oh my God Tom who are we gonna tell
The sheriff he belongs in a prison cell
Keep your mouth shut that's what we're gonna do
Unless you wanna wind up in the wishin' well too
I know a secret down at Uncle Tom's Cabin
Know a secret that I just can't tell
I know a secret down at Uncle Tom's Cabin
Know who put the bodies, know who put the bodies
in the wishin' well
song performed by by Warrant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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