Breaking It Gently
ALL WAS UP with Richard Tanner—
‘Wait-a-Bit’ we called him. Dead?
Yes. The braceman dropped a spanner,
Landed Richard on the head;
Cracked his skull, sir, like a teacup,
Down the pump-shaft in the well.
Braceman hadn’t time to speak up,
Tanner never knew what fell.
Tell the widow? Who’d go through it?
No one on the shift would stir;
But Pat Ryan said he’d do it—
‘Nately break the news to her.’
Pat’s a splitter, and a kinder
Heart I never wish to know.
Stephens told him where to find her,
Begged him gently deal the blow.
In a very solemn manner
Ryan met the dead man’s wife—
‘Mornin’ to yez, Widdy Tanner!’
Says he gravely, ‘Such is life!’
‘I’m no widow!’ says she, prying
For the joke in Ryan’s eye.
‘’Scuse me, mum,’ says Paddy, sighing,
‘’Scuse me, mum, but that’s a lie.’
‘That remark would be repented
If Dick Tanner heard,’ says she.
‘Meanin’, mum, the late lamented
Party av that name?’ says he.
Still the widow missed the notion,
Wonder only filled her eye;
So Pat smothered his emotion,
Gulped, and had another try.
‘’Tis like this, ye see, me honey,
I’ve been sint t’ let ye know
Ye’ve inherited some money—
Twilve ’r fifteen pounds ’r so.
Through a schame av Providence’s,
Which no mortal man could dodge;
Poor Dick’s funeral expenses
Have fell due, mum, at the lodge!’
poem by Edward George Dyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Legend of Hell's Gate: An American Conspiracy
Eric Balfour, Lou Taylor Pucci, Henry Thomas, Jenna Dewan-Tatum, Summer Glau, Kevin Alejandro, Jamie Thomas King, Tanner Beard, Jim Beaver, Robert Buckley, James Lafferty
by Tanner Beard from The Legend of Hell's Gate: An American Conspiracy (2012)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Widow At Windsor
'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?
She 'as ships on the foam -- she 'as millions at 'ome,
An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
(Ow, poor beggars in red!)
There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,
There's 'er mark on the medical stores --
An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind
That takes us to various wars.
(Poor beggars! -- barbarious wars!)
Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
O' Missis Victorier's sons.
(Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)
Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
An' we've salted it down with our bones.
(Poor beggars! -- it's blue with our bones!)
Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
(Poor beggars! -- we're sent to say "Stop"!)
Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs --
To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
An' open in form with the guns.
(Poor beggars! -- it's always they guns!)
We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
It's safest to let 'er alone:
For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.
(Poor beggars! -- an' don't we get blown!)
Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
But you won't get away from the tune that they play
To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
(Poor beggars! -- it's 'ot over'ead!)
Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
Wherever, 'owever they roam.
'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
A speedy return to their 'ome.
(Poor beggars! -- they'll never see 'ome!)
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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You can have money piled to the ceiling but the size of your funeral is still going to depend on the weather.
quote by Chuck Tanner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Incognito
My name is Dick.
I've had that name since the day I was born.
OK - it's Richard, but those who call me that
have a clipboard in their hand.
Then in my 20's I changed my name to Rick.
Please keep in mind - that was in `72.
At least I didn't choose Song Of Dog,
or Ben 2 Awe Sun.
Now some just call me Rick,
and some still call me Dick.
Some say Richard, then there's some
who aren't too sure of what to say.
Dick:
as a noun - What a dick!
an adjective - Hey dick head!
a verb: - Don't dick around!
an expletive - Dick! My hair is on fire!
Unless, of course, your name is Dick.
poem by Rick Stokes
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High
Lyrics : Jani Lane and M. Tanner / Music : M. Tanner, Jani Lane and Rick Steier)
Last night I had a dream about you
And how you fit in my naked life
Mistakes, I guess I made a few here
And there and from time to time
Yea, oh yea
I know, lord I dreamed about it
Every detail in every move
Im sure, theres no doubt about it
Im trying to break through to you
Ive tried several other people
Came close a few time but then
It just broke down
I wont lie, I wont kid about it
Merry come round and round
Bridge
Hey love, hold me close,
Pull me in
Dont let go, faith & love arent enough,
I should know, give me hope, let it show
I think you know how to make me feel high
Chorus
All, all that I want is a moment of your precious time
And all, all it would take is let me come over to your side
I think you know how to make me feel high
song performed by by Warrant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song For Heroes
Captain O’Hare was a mariner brave;
He refused to abandon his ship;
A hero, he sleeps in a watery grave—
And his widow is now Mrs. Bipp,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Bipp!
Henri Dupont was a fearless young ace;
Five thousand feet up he was hit;
Each year on his grave pretty flowers we place—
And his widow is now Mrs. Schmitt,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Schmitt!
Corporal Dunn was a volunteer bold;
He plunged in the deadliest fray;
A bayonet thrust laid him out stony cold—
And his widow is now Mrs. Gray,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Gray!
But Peter McGuck was a cowardly sneak,
Like a hound he remained home in fear;
When fishing one day he fell into the creek—
And his widow is now Mrs. Greer,
Haw! Haw! Haw!
Mrs. William O’Houlihan Greer!
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Convicts Love Canaries
Dick's dead! It was the Polack guard
Put powdered glass into his cage
When I was tramping round the yard,--
I could have killed him in my rage.
I slugged him with that wrench I stole:
That's why I'm rotting in the Hole.
Dick's dead! Sure I wish I was too.
His honey breast, his lacy claws
I kissed and cried, for well I knew
They murdered him. I cursed because
He was my only chum on earth . . .
Oh how he cheered me with his mirth!
Dick's dead! I know he cared for me.
Being I'm Irish I love song,
And there was heaven in his glee;
I'd bless his heart the dour day long.
I'd let him flutter round the cell;
He'd light upon my hand . . . Oh hell!
Dick's dead! They've thrown me in the Hole.
To break our spirits how they try!
My bed a plank, blind as a mole,
Sure I'll be nuts before I die . . .
Here in the night, dark as the Pit
I'm seeing sunny wings aflit.
Here in the silence, hark his song!
--Poor Dick! Oh Christ, how long, how long!
poem by Robert William Service
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Head Buried, Not Me!
Head buried in daily life,
What’s happened to the human spirit?
Plain shirts, following suit, home by 6.
Dead to the world by 12,
Cinderella left the ball.
Metal through my lip, red in my hair,
Being me and not hiding the fact.
An unearthed passion for music,
A voice that will be heard!
I’m not playing that game.
Velvet rose may lay on my bed,
Under a sea of thorns,
That keep me awake.
Many sleepless nights ahead,
I won’t give up the fight!
poem by Joseph Tanner
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Paddy Murphy's Wake
The priest had been here earlier and the rosary was said
and relatives and friends in single file were offering condolences.
'Sorry for your troubles, ' one by one they said,
bending over Maggie Murphy, silent in her rocker,
a foot or so from Paddy, resplendent in his casket,
the two of them much closer now than they had ever been.
A silent guest of honor, Paddy now had nothing more to say,
waked in aspic, if you will, in front of his gothic fireplace.
But the hour was getting late and still the widow hadn't wept.
Her eyes were swept Saharas and the mourners wanted tears.
They had fields to plow come morning and they needed sleep
but the custom in County Kerry was
no one leaves a wake until the widow weeps.
Fair Maggie could have married any man in Kerry,
according to her mother, who almost every day reminded her of that.
'Maggie, ' she would say, 'you should have married Mickey.
His limp was not that bad, ' but Maggie wouldn't listen.
Instead, she married Paddy, 'that pestilence out walking'
as her mother often called him
even on a Sunday but only after Mass.
Maggie married Paddy the day he scored the only goal
the year that Kerry took the trophy back from Galway.
That goal was no small thing, Paddy would remind us all forever
until one of us would gag and buy him another drink.
That goal, he'd shout, was something historians would one day note,
even if they hadn't yet, and every time he'd mention it,
which was almost daily, Maggie's mother would remind her daughter
that she should have married Mickey and had a better life.
The final time her mother praised poor Mickey,
a screaming match ensued, so loud it woke the rooster
the day before her mother, feverish in bed,
gurgled like a frog and died.
This evening, though, as the wake wore on,
the mourners grew more weary
waiting for the tears the widow hadn't shed.
Restless in his folding chair, Mickey put his bottle down
and rose to give the eulogy it had taken days to memorize.
'Folks, ' he said, 'if all of us would holler down to Paddy now,
he'd holler back, I'm sure, and tell us,
despite the flames and all that smoke, that Kerry
winning over Galway is all that ever mattered, even now.
We'll always have cold Paddy over there to thank for that.'
The Widow Murphy hadn't moved all evening,
but after hearing Mickey speak, she began to rock with fury
as she raised a purple fist, shook it to the heavens
and then began to hum her favorite dirge.
The mourners all joined in and hummed along until
midnight pealed on the mantel clock and then,
as if released by God Himself, the mourners one by one
rose from folding chairs and left in single file, freed
by a hurricane of the Widow Murphy's tears.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Black Widow
I just love my nightmares
I cant wait to sleep
Enjoying all my dreams
Got no regrets
I can be a flash of lightning
Striking down on rocks
Burning down the law
Getting things I never got
Turning the world
Nothing unheard
One night can be more than a day
Just like a black widow
Like a black widow
I cant stand the dreamers
Scared of things that fly
They just have sweet fantasies
And fade and die
Nightmares - are so good, so good
And they always end just when they should
Nightmares are cool, nightmares are cruel
I love the fun and the thrill
Just like a black widow
Like a black widow
Black widow
Just like a black widow
Here comes the morning
And who can deny
Leaving the dream is so hard
I love my nightmares
I await their return
And this time, Im dressed to kill, dressed to kill
Just like a black widow............
song performed by by U. D. O.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Coin Of Little Worth
I have seen and liked
silver coins stamped
in ancient Greece Rome
these usually carry the image
of supposedly great men
kings emperors face in profile
but their deeds were often
treacherous harsh cruel
wars these started for more
wealth slaves land to rule
my favourite coin
is a very small coin
tiny of little worth
that a woman with nothing
once gave at the temple
a very very long time ago
My Lord praised her
for giving all her livelihood
for giving more than
all gathered rich worshippers
combined because
proud rich gave a percentage
from all their amassed profit
a percentage calculated
based upon requirements of
law; but a poor woman gave
everything she had
based upon her own giving heart
it is written how Jesus sat down;
with the treasury chests in view
observing how the crowd dropped
money into the treasury chests;
many rich people were dropping in
many coins however a poor
widow woman dropped in only two
small coins which had very little value;
these coins became known as the widow's mite.
Jesus called his disciples and said to them
"Truly I say to YOU that this poor widow
dropped in more than all those dropping
money into the treasury chests; for they
all dropped in out of their surplus,
but she dropped in all of what
she had, her whole living." Mark 12: 41-44.
For the love of God.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I will preach with my brush.
quote by Henry Ossawa Tanner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If you don't like the way the Atlanta Braves are playing then you don't like baseball.
quote by Chuck Tanner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's hard to win a pennant, but it's harder to lose one.
quote by Chuck Tanner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Yazoo Street Scandal
(by j.r. robertson)
Stranded out in the night,
Eliza took me down
To see the widow give
Rain to the town.
Its against the law
To be a tonic man,
But the widow knows
Shes got the upper hand.
So I went on in
Feelin kinda wheezy.
You know she soothed my mind, boys,
She rocked me kinda slow and easy
All day and all night.
Pick a card before you go
Its a long trip to mexico.
Eliza wait by the door,
I cant stay here anymore, no, no.
Then she took a pill
She washed her feet in the mud
She said look out son,
You know, I just ordered a flood
For forty days and forty nights.
Then I dropped my shoes,
Eliza called my name.
She said it looked to her
Like its gonna rain.
Then the cotton king
Came in chokin
And the widow laughed and said:
I aint jokin.
Take once for all
She said now dont ya tease me.
I just fell in love, boy,
So rock me kinda slow and kinda easy,
All day and all night.
Sweet william said
With a drunken head:
If I had a boat,
Id help yall float.
Eliza stood there watching,
William in a trance,
As the widow did the st. vitus dance.
But just then an old man
With a boat named breezy
Said: you can ride with clyde, boys,
If you rock it kinda slow and easy,
All day and all night.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Widow
It's hard to be a widow.
They think of you as one.
And all you ever think of
is how you two had begun.
Couple, pair, twosome,
partners all through life.
Then one day it's over.
You used to be a wife.
Now you eat your meals
all by yourself
and go to bed alone.
You see the chair
across from you
and you'd always known
there'd be a time when one of you
would leave before the other.
And now you're left with children.
You're known as just a mother.
It's hard to be a widow
but there's nothing you can do.
You keep your memories to yourself
when all you knew were two.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Get it - get it better or get it worse. No middle ground of compromise.
quote by Henry Ossawa Tanner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I don't think a manager should be judged by whether he wins the pennant, but by whether he gets the most out of the twenty-five men he's been given.
quote by Chuck Tanner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Many of the artists who have represented Negro life have seen only the comic, ludicrous side of it, and have lacked sympathy with and appreciation for the warm big heart that dwells within such a rough exterior.
quote by Henry Ossawa Tanner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Red Robin
Hi, it's a funny world! This mornin' when I woke
I saw red robin on the fence, an' heard the words he spoke.
Red robin, he's a perky chap, an' this was his refrain:
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'
To talk like that about his wife! It had me scandalized.
I'd heard him singin' so before, but never recognised
The meaning of his chatter, or that he could be so vain:
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'
I don't know how, I don't know why, but this reminded me
I was promised to the widow for this Sunday night to tea.
I'd promised her for weeks an' weeks, until she pinned me down.
I recollects this is the day, an' gets up with a frown.
I was thinkin' of the widow while I gets me clobber on -
Like a feller will start thinkin' of the times that's past an' gone.
An', while my thoughts is runnin' so, that bird chips in again:
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'
Now, the widow's name is Jenny, an' it strikes me sort of queer
That my thoughts should be upon her when that robin's song I hear.
She ain't so homely neither; but she never could compare
With a certain bonzer vision with the sunlight in her hair.
When I wander down that evenin', she come smilin' to the gate,
An' her look is calculatin', as she scolds because I'm late.
She takes my hat an' sits me down an' heaves a little sigh.
But I get a queer sensation from that glimmer in her eye.
She starts to talk about the mill, an' then about the strike,
An' then she digs Ben Murray up an' treats him nasty-like;
She treats him crool an' cattish, as them soft, sweet women can.
But I ups an' tells her plainly that I think Ben is a man.
First round to me. But she comes back, an' says Ben is a cad
Who's made a laughin'-stock of her, an' treated her reel bad.
I twig she's out for sympathy; so counters that, an' says
That Ben's a broken-hearted man about the mill these days.
The second round to me on points; an' I was havin' hopes.
(I might have known that widows were familiar with the ropes.)
'But he'd never make a husband!' says the widow, with a sigh.
An' again I gets a warnin' from that glimmer in her eye.
I says I ain't no judge of that; an' treats it with a laugh.
But she keeps the talk on 'usbands for a minute an' a half.
I can't do much but spar a bit, an' keep her out of range;
So the third round is the widow's; an' the fight takes on a change.
I'm longin' for a breather, for I've done my nerve a lot,
When suddenly she starts on 'Love,' an' makes the pace reel hot.
In half a jiff she has me on the ropes, an' breathin' hard,
With not a fight inside me - I can only duck an' guard.
She uppercuts me with a sigh, an' jabs me with a glance.
(When a widow is the fighter, has a single bloke a chance?)
Her short-arm blows are amorous, most lovin' is her lunge;
Until it's just a touch an' go I don't throw up the sponge.
I use my head-piece here a bit to wriggle from the fix;
For the widow is a winner 'less I fluke a win by tricks.
An' I lets a reel mean notion (that I don't seek to excuse),
when I interrupts her rudely with, 'But have you heard the news?'
Now, to a woman, that's a lead dead certain of a score,
An' a question that the keenest is unable to ignore.
An' good old Curiosity comes in to second me,
As I saw her struggle hopeless, an' 'What news is that?' says she.
An' here I spins a lovely yarn, a gloomy hard-luck tale
Of how I've done my money in, an' I'm about to fail,
How my house an' land is mortgaged, how I've muddled my affairs
Through foolin' round with racin' bets and rotten minin' shares.
I saw the fight was easy mine the minute I begun;
An', after half a dozen words, the time-keep counted 'One.'
An' when I finish that sad tale there ain't the slightest doubt
I am winner of the contest, an' the widow's down an' out.
But not for long. Although she's lost, the widow is dead game:
'I'm sorry, Mister Jim,' says she, 'for both your loss an' shame.
All things is changed between us now, of course; the past is dead.
An' what you were about to say you please will leave unsaid.'
. . . . . . . . . .
I was thinkin' in the evenin' over how I had escaped,
An' how the widow took it all - the way she stared an' gaped.
She looked her plainest at that time; but that don't matter now;
For, plain or fair, I know of one who's fairer, anyhow.
I tells meself that beauty ain't a thing to count with man,
An' I would never choose a wife on that unthinkin' plan.
No robin was awake, I swear; but still I heard that strain;
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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